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POEMS, 



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SECOJfD EBITIOJf, WITH ADmTIO>'S. 



And song is but the eloquence of truth." 

Campbeli. 



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LOK-DON, 1821. 



IIEPUBLISHED BY 

LITTELL & HENRY, 
"No. 74, South Second Street, Philadelphia. 

Clark & Baser, Printers, 
Mat-^1821. 



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Brown University 

jut n 7 1934 



INTRODUCTORY VERSES 



MAMA ® A©ms> 



Autkor of " Winter Evenings," ** Grecian and English Stories," &e. 



NAY ! do not half reproachfully exclaim, 

" How foolish !"— -Poets are not often wise. 
If it be foolishness to love a name 

Endear'd by one of nature's strongest ties, 
And much that memory's sweetest power supplier, 

I own myself no sage ; for, unto me, 
Thy own is one which will not bear disguise 

Of dash or stars * * * such as we often see ; 

No, let it stand at length, from all concealment free. 



IV 

Besides, this is not calPd a dedication -- 

A thing, I own of ominous extent. 
And bringing .with it fearful expectation 

Of all that fulsome flattery can invent i 
Nor is it here inscrib'd with thy consent ; 

So thou art unimpeach'd. On me alone 
Rest all the blame of this poor monument, 

(IVhich I will never shrink from, nor disown, 
Built bv a Brother's love, to hours for ever flown. 



V'ears have elaps'd, Maria, since we met ', 

More may revolve before we meet again 5 
The past, so far from teaching to forget. 

Has added but fresh links unto that chain 
Which brings no bondage and inflicts no pain : 

And if the future be but like the past. 
Bring what it may of other loss, or gain. 

Of skies with sunshine bright, or overcast, 
I have no chilling fear that life can love outlast. 



-' V 
With z(s it should not ; for to cither's view, 

In memory's busy musings, there should be 
Objects and scenes that wear the self-same hue. 

Awakening thoughts which have one master-key 
To explain their charm. Is it not thus with thee. 

When aught resembling things of former years 
Attracts thy gaze? be it landscape, house, or tree, 

Or ivy -mantled church-tower, which uprears 
Its venerable walls, and to the sight appears- — 



Like a familiar object? But, no more: 

In truth I dare not trust myself to dwell 
On all that recollection could restore ; 

Or thou might'st tire, ere I one half could tell : 
And that would cruelly dissolve the spell ; 

Then let it go ! I fain would now compare, 
But not as rivals do, how ill or well. 

Such leisure moments as we both could spare 
Have been employed by each, and what the fruits they 
bear. 

A 2 



VI 

Mine have been spent in seeking to portray 

Feelings and thoughts, which o'er my spirits shed 
The doubtful splendour of an April day. 

Alike by showers, and sweetest sunshine fed; — 
Pensive communion holding with the dead ; 

Or bodying forth, in simple poesy. 
Beautiful scenes, and thoughts which such have 
bred : — 

These, the best fruits of leisure's blighted tree. 
Though little they can boast, I now present to thee. 



Thou hast, meanwhile, (by thy experience taught 

That which thou only couldst have gathered thence. 
Of winning modes to guide the expanding thought. 

And knowledge with amusement to dispense) 
With noun and adjective, with verb and tense. 

With History's page, or Travellers' vast supplies. 
Been busily employ'd ; and brought from hence 

A hoard which parents and their children prize 
\like with gratitude. Thy choice has been most wise. > 



Vll 

It is no unsubstantial good to dwell 

In childhood's heart, on childhood's guileless tongue^ 
To be the chosen, favourite oracle. 

Consulted by the innocent and young: 
To be remember'd as the light that flung 

Its first fresh lustre on the unwrinkled brow ; 
And there are hearts may cleave, as mine has clung, 

To hours which I enjoy 'd, yet knew not how. 
To whom thou shalt be, then, what Day* to me is now 1 



A being lov'd and honour'd for the sake 

Of past enjoyment ; aye ! and still possessing 
When thoughts of happy infancy awake, 

A charm beyond the power of words expressing. 
Yes, I am not asham'd of thus confessing 

The debt my early childhood seems to owe; 
And if I had the power to invoke a blessing 

On them who first excited rapture's glow, 
'Twould fall on Barbauld, Berquin, Bunyan, Day, Defoe ! 

* Thomas Day, the author of " Sandford and Merton." 



Vlll 

Their works were dear to me, before I knew. 

Or car'd to know, if they were own'd by Fame ; 
And after all that life has led me through. 

Of pain and pleasure, they are still the same. 
Whene'er I meet them, they appear to claim 

Familiar greeting not to be denied : 
Nor should it; for so complex is the frame 

On which the mind's whole store is edified, 
'Twere hard for me to tell what they have not supplied. 



But to return to thee, although it may 

Be only to take leave. It must be so. 
I scarcely dar'd, at no far distant day. 

To think that ever verse of mine might show 
The ardent love I bear thee ; and although 

Surprise at first forgiveness may impede, 
I trust that feelings, cherish'd long ago 

By both, will glow afresh when thou shalt read 
Affection's fond farewell ! and for my pardon plead. 

12^/t Mo. 31st, 1819. 



PREFACE 

TO 

THE SECOND EDITION. 



THE author of the following pieces feels the 
natural satisfaction of an author in having so spee- 
dily occasion to introduce them afresh to the pub- 
lic ^ and he is inclined to avail himself of this occa- 
sion to offer, very shortly, a remark or two, chiefly 
suggested by the various critical notices of which his 
first edition has been the object. 

For the kind manner in which he has been treat- 
ed by all the literary journals that have honoured 
his unpretending volume by making it the subject 
of their observations, he is thankful. This he may 
surely say without incurring the imputation of ser- 
vility ; but to do justice to his own feelings, and to 
convey a proper idea of the satisfaction which he 
experien(^es, he must be permitted to say something 
more. 

The writer is well aware that the power of ab- 
solute talent displayed in this volume, cannot bear 
comparison with those examples of high poetical 



X PREFACE. 

genius, which are afforded in the works of several 
of the popular poets of the present day. He had 
never imposed upon himself by believing, that he 
could enter into competition with these in point of 
ability ; but he did think, nevertheless, that it was 
possible his humble productions might be usefully 
and not unfitly permitted to take their chance for 
public favour. 

They have found this in a degree beyond his an- 
ticipation; and their success, without altering his 
original estimation of his own talent as a poet, has 
given him pride as an author beyond what he could 
have experienced in the assurance of owing that 
success to genius of the first order. The indulgence 
with which these pieces have been received proves 
to him, that the most poignant temptations, and 
brilliant seductions, addressed to the public taste 
and moral sentiment, have not yet extinguished, in 
the public breast, a genuine attachment to the sober 
and simple exercise of the gentler faculties of the 
muse; and that, even under the disadvantage of 
inferior power, readers willirigly welcome those lays 
that appeal only to the pure, and quiet, and con- 
scientious feelings of the heart. 

He does not scruple to confess, that his delight 
in this conviction is increased by what is personal 
to himself in the testimony just mentioned; but he 
can most sincerely declare, that the pleasure of find- 



iiig his compositions generally praised for the ab- 
sence of all deleterious moral quality, and their 
tendency to strengthen impressions favojiirable to 
virtue and to religion, has far outweighed other con- 
siderations in his mind. 

The author's religious persuasion having been 
very commonly alluded to by his critics, he can 
scarcely avoid referring to this point. That he has 
not been thought, either to discredit the principles, 
or dishonour the intellect, of those with whom it is 
his glory to agree on the most important of all hu- 
man concerns, cannot but be highly gratifying to 
him. On the other hand, the liberality with which 
individuals of different views and habits have con- 
nected what is of laudable purpose and salutary ten- 
dency in tliis volume with the tenets and practice of 
the society of Friends, ought to be, and no doubt 
will be, duly appreciated by that body of Christians. 
That the writer should have been instrumental ia 
procuring this public and affectionate testimony to 
the honour of a cause which he identifies with truth 
itself, is a circumstance on which his mind will ever 
delight to dwell. May he not appeal to it in favour 
of an art which has been not only his amusement, 
but his consolation; — in the pursuit of which his 
thoughts have busied themselves with the loftiest 
and purest objects of contemplation; — an art the 
noblest exercise of which is to be found in the best 



Xll PREFACE. 

of all books, conveying the most heart-touching 
strains of inspired piety ? 

" And know ye foes to song! (well-meaning men, 
Though quite forgotten half your Bible's praise*) 
Important truths, in spite of verse, may please." 

Youire. 

The name of the author from whom these lines 
are quoted, adds force to his argument. But one 
is unwilling to think that much argument can now 
be necessary to vindicate poetry from suspicion or 
jealousy, as the necessary ally of levity or licentious- 
ness. The example of the author of the following 
poems is an instance to which it will doubtless be 
considered pardonable here to refer, that the poet 
who brings to his task a sensibility to what is wor- 
thy and of good report, and a conscientious deter- 
mination to address himself to no feelings but those 
that are in harmony with our duty to God and our 
neighbour, brings to it qualifications so suitable to 
the art itself, that they may serve to sustain him in 
an attempt, to which his powers of mind, without 
such aid, would probably have been found inade- 
quate. 

* The poetical parts of the Bible. 



CONTENTS. 



Page 
Vebses, supposed to be written in a Burial-ground, Etc. . . 1 

Valley of Fern, Part I. 7 

Valley of Fern, Part II 11 

Stanzas on the Death of Lieut. P 15 

To the Memory of S^nuel Whi thread, Esq 18 

Verses occasioned by an affecting instance of sudden Death 20 

Stanzas to M. P 23 

Autumn, written in the grounds of M. Cole, Esq 25 

Verses, written in a blank leaf of "TIghe's Psyche" ... 28 

Stanzas, selected from " The Pains of Memory" SO 

On the Death of Sir Samuel Rorailly 35 

Verses to an Infant 39 

To the Memory of H. M 43 

On the Death of a Child 45 

To Percy Bysshe Shelley 48 

Hymn for a Sunday School . . . . , . 51 

To the Memory of Sarah Candler 53 

B 



Xir CONTENTS. 

Page 
Silent Worship 56 

To the Memory of Mary Fletcher 59 

ToLydia 62 

Meditations in Great Bealings Church-yard 63 

To a Friend, with a copy of the preceding 74 

Winter 77 

Stanzas to a Friend ! 78 

Sonnet to the Deben ^ . 81 

To William Wordsworth, on his " Peter Bell" 82 

An Address to the Subscribers, &c 88 

Verses, suggested by an Epitaph, &,c 92 

To the Gallic Eagle 95 

To some Friends going to the Sea-side 97 

Stanzas on the Death of a Friend 100 

On the Conversion of the Jews 102 

The Ivy 104 

To the Memory of P. Burgess 107 

Stanzas to Helen M. M 109 

Fancy and Imagination 112 

Playford 114 

To some Friends returning from the Sea-side 118 

To the Moon 121 

Recollections 124 



CONTENTS. XV 

Page 
To an affectionate and pious Parent, on the Death of her 

Child '..... 130 

" The Heaven was Cloudless" 135 

Verses to a young' Priend . r 138 

Stanzas, composed while walking on the Warren Hill . . 141 

Written in an Album 143 

The Adieu 144 

The Mother's Lament 146 

On the Death of the Princess Charlotte 148 

Sleep . 151 

To William Roscoe, Esq 154 

A Dream . . . . 156 

On the Death of H. A 160 

To a Father,, on the Death of his only Child 162 

Verses to a Professional Friend 164 

To Mary, occasioned by the Motto on her Seal .... 168 

Sonnet to Charlotte M. , 170 

« All is Vanity" . 171 

To a Friend on her Birth-day 174 

The Solitary Tomb 179 

To a Friend on his second Marriage 182 

Verses, on seeing a Sketch of an old Gate-way .... 183 

" Thou art gone to the land of the Leal" 187 



XVX CONTENTS. 

Page 
The Sea 188 

To a Profile 192 

Sonnet to a Friend . 194 

To 195 

Sonnet to W.P 19r 

Verses to her who is justly entitled to them 198 

A Postscript 199 

Lines to Hannah and Phoebe . 201 

Parting Address to the Muse 202 

To Joanna . 205 

To , on the Fiftieth Anniversary, &c. . . . . 208 

Leiston Abbey . , 211 

To a Child of Three Years Old 219 

The Quaker Poet 221 

Drab Bonnets .225 

Stanzas occasioned by the Death of a Relative abroad , . 228 

To the Winds 231 

Concluding Verses, written after returning from a Morn- 
ing Walk 233 



I'd 



VERSES, 



SITPPOSED TO BE WKITTEN IN 

A BURIAL-GROUND BELONGING TO THE SOCIETY OF 
FRIENDS. 



WHAT though no sculptur'd monuments around. 

With epitaphs engraven, meet me here ; 
Yet conscious feeling ovv^ns, with awe profound, 

The habitation of the dead is near : 
With reverend feeling, not with childish fear, 

I tread the ground which thej, when living, trod : 
Pondering this truth, to Christians justly dear. 

Whose influence lends an interest to the sod 
That covers their remains : — The dead still live to God ! 

Is it not written in the hallow 'd page 

Of Revelation, God remains to be 
The Lord of all, in every clime and age. 

Who fear'd and serv'd him living ? Did not Hej 
Who for our sins expir'd upon the tree. 

Style him of Abram, Isaac, Jacob, — Lord ! 
Because they lived to Him? Then why should we, 

(As if we could no fitter meed afford,) 

Raise them memorials ftere.^ — Their dust shall be restor'd. 

B 2 / 



Could we conceive Death was indeed the close 

Of our existence. Nature might demand 
That, where the reliques of our friends repose, 

Some record to their memory should stand. 
To keep them unforgotten in the land : — 

Then, then indeed, urn, tomb, or marble bust, 
By sculptor's art elaborately plann'd. 

Would seem a debt due to their mouldering dust. 
Though time would soon efface the perishable trust. 

But, hoping, and believing; yea, through Faith, 

Knowing, because His word has told us so. 
That Christ, our Captain, triumph'd over death, 

And is the first fruits of the dead below ; — 
That he has trod for man this path of wo. 

Dying — to rise again ! — we would not grace 
Death's transitory spell with trophied show; 

x\s if that " shadowy vale," supplied no trace 
To prove the grave is not our final dwelling-place. 

The poet's page, indeed, would fain supply 

A specious reason for the sculptor's art; 
Telling of " hohj texts that teach to die :" 

But much I doubt they seldom reach the heart 
Of church -yard rovers. How should truths impart 

Instruction, when engraven upon stone. 
If unconfess'd before ? The Christian's chart 

Records the answer unto Dives known. 
Who, for his brethren's sake, pleaded in suppliant tone. 



3 

" If Moses and the Prophets speak, unheard, 

Neither would the j believe if spoke the dead/' 
Then how should those, bj whom unmov'd the word 

Of greater far than such, has oft been read, 
By random texts, thus " strewn around," be led 

Aright to live, or die ? And how much less 
Can false and foolish tributes, idly spread. 

In mockery of truth and tenderness. 
Awaken solemn thoughts, or holy themes impress ? 

And, therefore, would I never wish to see 

Tombstone, or epitaph obtruded here. 
All has been done, required by decency, 

When the unprison'd spirit sought its sphere: 
The lifeless body, stretch'd upon the bier 

With due solemnity, was laid in earth; 
And Friendship's parting sigh. Affection's tear, 

Claim'd by pure love, and deeply cherish'd worth. 
Might rise or fall uncheck'd, as sorrow gave them birth. 

There wanted not the pall, or nodding plume. 

The white-rob'd priest, the stated form of prayer; 
There needed not the livery'd garb of gloom. 

That grief, or carelessness alike might wear ; 
'Twas felt that such things " had no business there." 

Instead of these, a silent pause, to tell 
What language could not ; or, unconn'd by care 

Of rhetoric's rules, from faltering lips there fell 
Some truths to mourners dear, in memory long to dwell. 



4 

Then came the painful close— delay'd as long 

As well might be for silent sorrow's sake ; 
Hallow'd by love, which never seems so strong, 

As when its dearest ties are doom'd to break. 
One farewell glance there jet remained to take : 

Scarce could the tearful eye fulfil its trust, 
"When, leaning o'er the grave, with thoughts awake 

To joys departed, the heartfelt it must 
Assent unto the truth which tells us — we are dust ! 

The scene is past ! — and what of added good 

The dead to honour, or to soothe the living. 
Could then have mingled with the spirit's mood. 

From all the empty show of man's contriving? 
What worthier of memory's cherish'd hiving 

With miser care? In hours of such distress 
Deep, deep into itself the heart is diving ; 

Aye ! into depths, which reason must confess. 
At least mine owns them so, awful and fathomless ! 

Oh ! 'tis not in the bitterness of grief 

Bereavement brings with it, the anguish'd mind 
Can find in funeral mummeries relief. 

What matters, to the mourner left behind. 
The outward " pomp of circumstance," assign'd 

To such a sacrifice ? What monument 
Is wanted, where affection has enshrin'd 

The memory of the dead ? Grief must have spent 
Itself, before one thought to such poor themes is lent. 



And, when it hath so spent itself, does it 

Need other pile than what itself can build ? 
no ! — it has an epitaph unwrit. 

Yet graven deeper far than the most skilPd 
Of artists' tool can reach : — ^the full heart thrilPd, 

While that inscription was recording there ; 
And, till his earthly course shall be fulfilPd, 

That tablet, indestructible, must bear 
The mourner's wo, in lines Death can alone outwear. 

Then, be our burial-grounds, as should become 

A simple, but a not unfeeling race : 
Let them appear, to outward semblance, dumb. 

As best befits the quiet dwelling-place 
Appointed for the prisoners of Grace, 

Who wait the promise by the gospel given, — 
When the last trump shall sound, — the trembling base 

Of tombs, of temples, pyramids be riven. 
And all the dead arise before the hosts of Heaven 1 

Oh ! in that awful hour, of what avail 

Unto the " spiritual body," will be found 
The costliest canopy, or proudest tale 

Recorded on it ? — what avail the bound 
Of holy, or unconsecrated ground ? 

As freely will the unencumber'd sod 
Be cleft asunder at that trumpet's sound. 

As Royalty's magnificent abode : 
As pure its inmate rise, and stand before his God* 



6 

Then Thou, lamented and beloved Friend ! 

Not friend alone, but more than such to me ; 
Whose blameless life, and peaceful, hopeful end, 

Endear, alike, thj cherish'd memory ; 
Thine will a joyful resurrection be ! 

Thy works, before-hand, unto judgment gone. 
The second death shall have no power o'er thee : 

On thee, redeem'd by his beloved Son, 
Thy Father then shall smile, and greet thee with 
" Well done !" 

Could I but hope a lot so blest as thine 
Awaited me, no happier would I crave : 
That hope should then forbid me to repine 

That Heaven so soon resum'd the gift it gave ; 
That hope should teach me every ill to brave ; — 

Should whisper, 'mid the tempest's loudest tone, 
Thy spirit walk'd with me life's stormiest wave : 
And lead me, when Time's fleeting span was flown. 
Calmly to share thy couch, which needs no graven stone. 

9ih Mo, Utfi, 1819, ' 



THE 



VALLEY OF FERN. 



PART I. 

There is a lone valley, few charms can it number, 

Compar'd with the lovely glens north of the Tweed ; 
No mountains enclose it where morning mists slumber, 

And it never has echoed the shepherd's soft reed. 
No streamlet of crystal, its rocky banks laving. 

Flows through it, delighting the ear and the eye ; 
On its sides no proud forests, their foliage waving. 

Meet the gales of the Autumn or Summer wind's sigh. 
Yet by me it is priz'd, and full dearly I love it, 

And oft my steps thither I pensively turn ; 
It has silence within, Heaven's proud arch above it, 

And my fancy has nam'd it the Valley of Fern. 



O deep the repose which its calm recess giveth ! 

And no music can equal its silence to me ; 
"When broken, 'tis only to prove something liveth, 

By the note of the sky -lark, or hum of the bee. 
On its sides the green fern to the breeze gently bending, 

With a few stunted trees, meet the wandering eye; 
Or the furze and the broom their bright blossoms ex- 
tending, 

With the braken's soft verdure delightfully vie ; — 
These are all it can boast; yet, when Fancy is dreaming, 

Her visions, which Poets can only discern. 
Come crowding around, in unearthly light beaming, 

And invest with bright beauty the Valley of Fern, 



'Sweet Valley! in seasons of grief and dejection, 

I have sought in thy bosom a shelter from care ; 
And have found in my musings a bond of connexion 

With thy landscape so peaceful, and all that was there: 
In the verdure that sooth'd, in the flowers that bright- 
en'd. 

In the blackbird's soft note, in the hum of the bee, 
I found something that lull'd, and insensibly lighten'd. 

And feit grateful and tranquil while gazing on thee. 
Yes ! moments there are, v/hen mute nature is willing 

To teach, would proud man but be humble and learn ; 
W^hen her sights and her sounds on the heart-strings are 
thrilling : 

And this I have felt in the Valley of Fern. 



For the bright chain of being, though widely extended^ 

Unites all its parts in one beautiful whole ; 
In which Grandeur and Grace are enchantingly blended, 

Of which GOD is the Centre, the Light, and the Soul! 
And holy the hope is, and sweet the sensation, 

Which this feeling of union in solitude brings ; 
It gives silence a voice — and to calm contemplation. 

Unseals the pure fountain whence happiness springs. 
Then Nature, most lov'd in her loneliest recesses. 

Unveils her fair features, and softens her stern ; 
And spreads, like that Being who bounteously blesses, 

For her votary a feast in the Valley of Fern, 



And at times in its confines companionless straying. 

Pure thoughts born in stillness have pass'd through 
my mind ; 
And the spirit within, their blest impulse obeying. 

Has soar'd from this world on the wings of the wind;— ^ 
The pure sky above, and the still scene around me. 

To the eye which survey'd them, no clear image brought; 
But my soul seem'd entranced in the vision which 
bound me. 

As by magical spell, to the beings of thought ! 
And to Him, their dread Author ! the Fountain of Feeling! 

I have bow'd, while my heart seem'd within me to burn; 
And my spirit contrited, for mercy appealing. 

Has calPd on his name in the Valley of Fern. 



10 

Tarewell, lovely Valley ! when Earth's silent bosom 

Shall hold him who loves thee, thy beauties may live : 
And thy turPs em'rald tint, and thy broom's yellow 
blossom. 

Unto loiterers like him soothing pleasure may give. 
As brightly may morning, thy graces investing 

With light, and with life, wake thy inmates from sleep; 
And as softly the moon, in still loveliness resting, 

To gaze on the charms, thy lone landscape may steep. 
Then, should friend of the bard, who hath paid with his 
praises 

The pleasure thou'st yielded, e'er seek thy sojourn. 
Should one tear for his sake fill the eye while it gazes. 

It may fall unreprov'd in the Valley of Fern, 

1817. 



11 



THE 



VALLEY OF FERN 



PART II. 

Thou art jchang'd, lovely spot ! and no more tl^ou 
displayest 

To the eye of thy votary, that negligent grace. 
Which, in moments tlie saddest, the tenderest,the gayest, 

Allur'd him so oft thy recesses to trace. 
The hand of the spoiler has fallen upon thee. 

And marr'd the wild beauties that deck'd thee before: 
And the charms, which a port's warm praises had won 
thee, 

Exist but in memory, and bless thee no more. 
Thy green, palmy fern, which the softest and mildest 

Of Summer's light breezes could ruffle, — is fled; 
And the bright-blossom'd ling, which spread o'er thee. 

her wildest 
And wantonest hues, — is uprooted and dead. 



12 

^'et now, even now, that thou neither belongest. 

Or seem'st to belong, unto Nature or Art; 
The love I still bear thee is deepest and strongest. 

And thy fate but endears thee the more to my heart. 
Thou art passing away, like some beautiful vision, 

From things which now are, unto those that have been J 
And wilt rise to my sight, like a landscape elysian. 

With thy blossoms more bright, and thy verdure 
more gi'een. 
Thou wilt dwell in remembrance, among those recesses 

Which fancy still haunts; though they were, and 
are not; 
Whose loveliness lives, and whose beauty still blesses. 

Which, though ceasing to be, can be never forgot. 



We know all we see in this beauteous creation. 

However enchanting its beauty may seem. 
Is doom'd to dissolve, like some bright exhalation. 

That dazzles, and fades in the morning's first beam. 
The gloom of dark forests, the grandeur of mountains. 

The verdure of meads, and the beauty of flowers; 
The seclusion of valleys, the freshness of fountains. 

The sequester'd delights of the loveliest bowers^ 
Nay, more than all these, that the might of old ocean. 

Which seems as it was on the day of its birth. 
Must meet the last hour of convulsive commotion. 

Which sooner or later, will uncreate earth* 



13 

Yet, acknowledging this, it may be that the feelings 

Which these have awaken'd, the glimpses they've 
given. 
Combined with those inward and holy revealings 

That illumine the soul with the brightness of heaven. 
May still be immortal, and destin'd to lead us. 

Hereafter, to that which shall not pass away ; 
To the loftier destiny God hath decreed us. 

The glorious dawn of an unending day. 
And thus, like the steps of the ladder ascended 

By angels, (beheld with the patriarch's eye,) 
With the perishing beauties of earth may be blended 

Sensations too pure, and too holy to die. 



Nor would Infinite Wisdon have plann'd and perfected, 

W^ith such grandeur and majesty, beauty and grace. 
The world we inhabit, and thus have connected 

The heart's better feelings with nature's fair face. 
If the touching emotions, thus deeply excited. 

Towards Him who made all things, left nothing 
behind. 
Which, enduring beyond all that sense has delighted. 

Becomes intellectual, immortal, as mind I 
But they do ; and the heart that most fondly has cherish'd 

Such feelings, nor suflfer'd their ardour to chill. 
Will find, when, the forms which inspir'd them have 
perish'd. 

Their spirit and essence remain with it still* 
c 2 



14 

Thus thinking, I would not recall the bri^f measure 

Of praise, lo\^ely valley ! devoted to thee ; 
Well has it been won by the moments of pleasure 

Afforded to some, justly valued by me. 
May their thoughts and mine, often silently ponder 

Over every lov'd spot that our feet may have trod ; 
And teach us, while through nature's beauties we wander,. 

All space is itself but the temple of God ! 
That so, when our spirits shall pass through the portal 

Of Death, we may find, in a state more sublime. 
Immortality owns what could never be mortal ! 

And Eternity halPows some visions of Time ! • 

1819. 



IS 



STANZAS, 



03? THE DEATH OJ LIEUT. P — , OF THE B. A, 



There is a sacred tribute claim'd 
By Nature's pai-trng hour for all; 

By Fame applauded, orunnam'd 

There are who live to mourn their falL 

Whate'er their rank, or sex, or age. 
There are to whom they once were dear | 

And when they quit this busy stage. 
They claim their tributary tear» 

Death has his victims too, appealing 

To hearts whom kindred does not bind ; 

Save that pure tie of finer feeling. 
Which links congenial mind to mind. 

When each proud promise Nature gave 
Of form, of face, of mind, of all. 

Has perished in the untimely grave. 
Who but must mourn su.ch victim's fall? 



16 

Lamented Youth ! to memory's ey6 
Thy form now rises on the view ; 

E'en as it was in hours gone by. 
In fairest tints of health's bright hue. 

That pallid cheek is kindling still 
With youthful hope's delightful red ; 

That eye's bright glance, now cold and chill. 
Still seems its sparkling beams to shed. 

Vain, Memory ! vain thy partial spell : 
Thou canst not to the eye repair 

The painful void ; but thou mayest dwell 
Within our hearts, and lighten there. 

In his who feels a Father's wo. 

Soothe Sorrow's deepest, keenest thrill ; 
And make him, like old Ormond,* know 

That e'en the dead are lovely still. 

And oh ! in her's, whose patient zeal. 
In the long lingering hours of pain. 

Oft made the sinking sufterer feel 

The force of Nature's severing chain ; 



* The earl of Orraond, when condoled with on the death of 
his son, Lord Ossory, nobly replied, that he would not exchange 
his dead son for any living one in Christendom. It was a fine 
burst of feeling, equally honourable to parent and child. 



17 

In her^s, O Memory ! gently shed 
Around the past that chasten'd chaim. 

Which gives, to joys for ever fled. 
Bliss yet more touching, pure, and calnr. 

As, vi^hen the silent Queen of Night, 
By silvery clouds surrounded, beams, 

She does not vanish from our sight. 
But to the eye still lovelier seems ; 

So round the dead, does memory fling 
A Halo, which endears them more 5 

And cherish'd feelings fondly cling 
To what seems lovelier than before. 



18 



TO 



€Se 3lKemorp 



OP 



SAMUEL WHITBREAD, ESQ. 



While the tempest-tost mariner can but discern. 

His guide and his guardian, the pole-star on high j 
Regardless of winds and of waves, he may turn 
- To that bright-rolling orb with a hope-beaming eje. 

And thus, amid Europe's convulsive commotion. 
We too had our planet, and brilliant its blaze ; 

It shone o'er its own native isle of the ocean. 
In the proud, peerless splendour of primitive days* 

Oh, bright was the course of that star in our sky ! 

Undimm'd by the clouds through which calmly it 
pass'd ; 
And proud was the orbit it roll'd in on high. 

And holy the radiance which round it it cast. 



19 

The oppressed and the injur'd rejoic'd in its rays; 

The minions of power marked its progress with dread; 
The patriot pursued it with prayer and with praise ; 

And lovely and loved was the lustre it shed. 

And though it hath suddenly sunk from our sight. 

And those who long watch'd it must mourn for its fall 5 

Yet remembrance shall cling to its dawn with delight. 
And its noontide effulgence shall often recall. 

O grant that the dark cloud which veiPd its decline, 
In the bright beams of mercy may vanish away ; 

And the star we have lov'd, through Eternity shine 
In glory immortal, which dreads no decay ! 



20 



VERSES, 



OCCASIONED BT AIT APFECTIITG IITSTAKCE OF SUDDEN DEATHv 



Thou didst not sink by slow decay. 
Like some who live the longest; 

But every tie was wrench'd away, 
Just when those ties were strongest. 

A lot like thine may justly make 
The sanguine doubt to-morrow : 

And, in the hearts of others, wake 
Alternate fear and sorrow. 

Well may we fear ^ for who can think 
^ On thee, so lately living. 
Loving and lov'd, and yet not shrink 
With somewhat of misgiving ? 

Well may we mourn; for cold indeed. 
As thou, since death has found thee. 

Must be the heart that does not bleed 
For thee, and those around thee. 



21 

A Daughter, Mother, Sister, Wife ! 

At noon, Life smiPd before thee : 
The night brought nature's mortal strife. 

The day — Death's conquest o'er thee. 

How much was done in hours so few ! 

Hopes wither'd, hearts divided : 
Joys, griefs, loves, fears, and feelings too. 

Stern Death at once decided. 

With Thee 'tis over ! There are some. 
Who, in mute consternation. 

Fearfully shrink from hours to come 
Of heartfelt desolation. 

While the dark tempest's terrors lastj 

We guess at evils round us ; 
The clouds disperse, we stand aghast ; 

Its ravages confound us. 

The thunder's roar, the lightning's gleam 

Might seem a vision only ; 
But when we know we do not dreamy 

The stillness ! oh, how lonely ! 

One hope in such an hour is left, 
And may this hour reveal it; 

He, who hath thus of bliss bereft 
The heart, has power to heallt. 

D 



22 

Our dearest hopes He would not crush. 
And pass unheeding bj them ; 

Nor bid our eyes with sorrows gush, 
Unless his Love could dry them. 

A bruised reed He will not break : 
But hearts that bow before Him, 

Shall own his Mercy while they ache. 
And gratefully adore Him ! 



2S 
STANZAS 

TO M. P. 



Mary ! I wake not now for thee 
My simple lyre's rude melody, 

As once I touch'd its strings, 
With joyful hand; for then I thought 
That many years, with rapture fraught, 
Might yet be thine, which should have brought 

Fresh pleasure on their wings. 

But He, who gave thee vital breath. 
Sovereign supreme of life and death I 

Hath visited thy frame 
With sickness, which forbodes thy end ; 
And heaven -ward now thy prospects tend. 
And soon thy spirit must ascend 

To God ! from whence it came. 

Well, He is good ! and surely thou 
Mayst well in resignation bow. 

And gratefully confess. 
That this, his awful, wise decree. 
Though hard to us, is kind to thee ; 
Since Death's dark portals will but be 

The gate of happiness. 



24. 

Then start not at its transient gloom ; 
Let Faith and Hope beyond the tomb 

Their eagle glances fling : 
Angels unseen are hovering nigh, 
And serapli hosts exulting cry, 
'•' Grave I where is thy victory ? 

" O Death ! where is thy sting ?' * 

For soon before Jehovah-s throne, 
Thy soul redeeming love shall own. 

And join the sacred choir. 
Who to the Lamb their anthems raise, 
And tune their harps to deathless lays 
Of humble, grateful, holy praise ; 

While listening saints admire. 

And oh ! may I, who feebly wake 
My lyre's last murmurs for thy sake, 

With joy that lyre resign ; 
Then call a loftier harp my own. 
Whose chords are strung to God alone. 
And wake its most exalted tone, 

In unison with thine ! 

The amiable girl to whom the preceding verses were address- 
ed, is now HO more : — but the memory of some dehghtful hours 
spent in her society makes me desirous of preserving this last 
tribute to her worth. 



25 



AUTUMN. 



WaiTTBSr IN THE OBOITNDS OF MAHTIN COLE, ESQ.. 



When is the aspect which Nature wears 

The loveliest and dearest ? Say is it in Spring ? 

When its blossoms the apple-tree beauteously bears, 
And birds on each spray are beginning to sing ? 

Or is it in Summer's fervid pride ? 

When the foliage is shady on every side, 

And tempts us at noon in the green wood to bide. 
And list to the wild bird's warbling ? 

Lovely is Nature in seasons like these ; 

But lovelier when Autumn's tints are spread 
On the landscape round ; and the wind-swept trees 

Their leafy honours reluctantly shed : 
When the bright sun sheds a watery beam 
On the changing leaves and the glistening stream ; 
Like smiles on a sorrowing cheek, that gleam 

When its woes and cares for a moment are fled. 
D 2 



26 

And such is the prospect which now is greeting 

My glance, as I tread this favourite walk ; 
As the frolicsome sunbeams are over it fleeting. 

And each flowret nods on its rustling stalk : 
And the bosom of Deben is darkening and lightening. 
When clouds the crests of its waves are whitening. 
Or bursts of sunshine its billows are brightening, 
While the winds keep up their stormy talk. 



Of the brightness and beauty of Summer and Spring 

There is little left, but the roses that blow 
By this friendly wall. To its covert they cling. 

And eagerly smile in each sunbeam's glow ; 
But when the warm beam is a moment withdrawn. 
And the loud whistling breeze sweeps over the lawn. 
Their beauteous blossoms, so fair and forlorn. 

Seem to shrink from the wind which ruffles them so. 



Poor wind -tost tremblers I some months gone by. 
You were fann'd by breezes gentler than these ; 

When you stretched out your leaves to a summer sky, 
And open'd your buds to the hum of bees : 

But soon will the winter be past, and you. 

When his winds are gone to the north, shall renew 

Your graceful apparel of glossy hue. 

And wave your blossoms in Summer's breeze. 



27 

It is this which gives Autumn its magic charm 
Of pensive delight to the thoughtful mind ; 

Its shadowy splendours excite no alarm. 

Though we know that Winter lingers behind : 

We rejoice that Spring will again restore 

Every grace that enchanted the eye before ; 

And we feel that when Nature's first bloom is o'er. 
Her dearest and loveliest aspect we find. 

The autumnal blasts, which whirl while we listen ; 

The wan, sear leaf, life a floating toy ; 
The bright round drops of dew, which glisten 

On the grass at morn ; and the sunshine coy. 
Which comes and goes like a smile when woo'd ; 
The auburn meads, and the foamy flood, 
Each sight and sound, in a musing mood. 

Give birth to sensations superior to joy. 



28 
VERSES 

WRITTEN IN A BI.ANK 1,EA1? OF 



" Fond dreamer ! meditate thine idle song, 

But let thine idle song remain unknown :" 
guard its beauties from the vulgar throng. 

Unveil its charms to friendship's eye alone. 
To thee shall friendship's partial praise atone 

For all the incense of the world beside ; 
Unthinking mirth may slight thy pensive tone, 

Folly may scorn, or ignorance deride : 
The lay so idly sung, let prudence teach to hide. 

Sweet Minstrel ! couldst thou think a song like thine, 

With grace replete, with harmony inspir'd. 
Thy timid modesty could e'er confine 

Within those limits which thy fears desir'd ? 
Ah no ! by all approv'd, by all admir'd. 

Its charms shall captivate each listening ear ; 
Thy " Psyche," by the hand of taste attir'd. 

To virtue, grace, and delicacy dear. 
Shall consecrate thy name for many a future year. 



^9 

Oh ! had indulgent Heaven but spar'd thy lyre, 

Which first it strung and tun'd to melody. 
How many a heart had felt increasing fire, 

Dwelling enraptur'd on its minstrelsy^ 
How many an ear had drunk its harmony. 

And listened to its strains with sweet delight ; 
But He, whose righteous wdll is sovereignty, 

Hath bid thy sun of glory set in night, 
And, though we mourn thy loss, we own his sentence 
right. 

Yet, plaintive Songstress ! on thy gentle lay 

Fancy with pensive tenderness shall dwell ; 
Memory shall snatch from Time thy transient day, 

■ And soft regret each feeling breast shall swelL 
But, why regret ? Let faith, exulting, tell 

That she, whose tuneful voice had sung before. 
In allegoric strain, love's witching spell. 

Now sings His love whom v/ondering worlds adore, 
And still shall chaunt His praise when time shall be no 
more. 



30 



STANZAS 



SELECTED FHOM THE 



56 fragment. 



Memory ! mysterious principle, whose power 

Can ope alike the source of joy or wo ; 
Can gild with gladsome ray the passing hour, 

Or bid the starting tear of anguish flow : 
Fain would my mournful song aspire to show 

What keen regret, what deep remorse is thine ; 
How in the wreath which decks thine awful brow. 

The cypress with the willow should entwine. 
Alas ! my plaintive lyre, a gloomy theme is mine ! 

Far different visions happier bards have seen. 

Far different lays have happier poets sung ; 
And on those soul -enchanting sounds, I ween. 

Full many a captivated ear hath hung. 
Nor would I spurn the lyre to rapture strung. 

Or deem the song of Memory's joys untrue ; 
For oft, ere anguish had my bosom wrung, 

Did former hours recur to fancy's view, 
In gaudier colours drest, with graces ever new. 



31 

Yes, Memory ! in thy richly -varied page, 

Some pleasing passages may charm the eye ; 
The guileless records of our earlier age, 

May bring some dreams of retrospective joy ; 
But is that pleasure then without alloy ? 

Or does not contrast turn that bliss to wo ? 
But few, I fear, can think of hours gone by, 

Nor witness in their hearts compunction's throe. 
For moments unimprov'd, and time mispent below. 

Grant that nor vice, nor folly wounds the heart. 

Yet various feelings may regret inspire ; 
The agonizing tear may often start. 

To see departed friendship's flame expire. 
The mother mourns her child, the son his sire, 

Once lov'd on earth, now number'd with the dead : 
The weeping maiden's trembling steps retire 

From the green sod where rests her lover's head. 
Who hath not mou^n'd in vain for joys that long have 
fled? 

To meditate, with retrospective glance. 

On vanish'd transports of gay hours of pleasure, 
Our present happiness may well enhance. 

As former gains increase our present treasure. 
Benignant time's insensible erasure 

May mitigate the heart-felt pangs of sorrow ; 
And, from the cheering view of well -spent leisure. 

Some gleams of hope the mind may justly borrow. 
To usher in the dawn of heaven's eternal morrow. 



»2 

For, can the wiles of art, the grasp of power, 

Or all the fiends which blast the mind's repose, 
Snatch the rich reliqiies of a well-spent hour. 

Or quench the light it gives at life's dark close ? 
No : when the lamp of life but faintly glows. 

E'en when the trembling spirit wings her flight. 
Conscience shall blunt departing nature's throes. 

And smiling hope shall pour, with lustre bright. 
Around her heaven-ward path a stream of living light. 

Such were the sounds, which, on my youthful ear. 

In strains of harmony and rapture fell ; 
When Rogers bade his song, melodious, clear. 

In sweetest accents Memory's pleasures tell j 
Did not my glowing bosom feel the spell 

Of his celestial theme ? My raptur'd thought 
Would oft, by him inspir'd, with fondness dwell 

On hours for ever fled, with pleasure fraught, 
By Memory's magic power, from infant pastime 
brought. 

Oh ! sweetest Minstrel ! since to thee belong 

The gift of verse, the poet's art divine ; 
Why should thy silence thus the Muses wrong ? 

Why lies unstrung a harp so sweet as thine ? 
" Oh ! wake once more 1" pour forth the flowing line. 

Assert the honours thou hast justly won : 
" Oh ! wake once more !" invoke the favouring Nine, 

And ere thy yet remaining sand be run, 
Resplendently shine forth like the meridian sun. 



But, though thy pleasures, Memory, justly claim 

The votive tribute of the minstrel's song ; 
Yet keen regret, despair, and blushing shame, 

Horror and madness too, to thee belong. 
Of torturing fiends, a fell, relentless throng 

Attend thy course, and goad the anguish'd mind, 
Recall the hour when vice betray'd to wrong, 

Anticipate the doom to guilt assigned, 
And to each glimpse of hope the wandering senses blind. 

And shall thy pleasures then alone inspire 

The poet's song ? Shall fancy, sportive, gay. 
To notes of joy ecstatic tune the lyre. 

Unmindful that those pleasures soon decay ? 
Forgetful that the brightest, happiest day 

Must often, by misfortune overcast. 
Call forth the tear for moments pass'd away. 

For hopes dispers'd by disappointment's blast. 
And pleasing spells dissolv'd, which fancy said should last. 

And do not themes like these deserve the lay ? 

Yes ; though ungrateful, gloomy, and forlorn ; 
Scorn'd by the young, unnotic'd by the gay. 

Who sport enraptur'd in the glowing morn 
Of life ; yet hearts there are who may not scorn 

The song which bids the tear of pity start ; 
Hearts which have deeply felt the rankling thorn. 

Which Memory can through every fibre dart ; 
To such my lay shall flow, warm from a kindred hearti 



34 

Are there who mourn for friendship known no more? 

For cold neglect, unmerited disdain ? 
Are there who weep adversity's dark hour. 

Reluctant vassals in misfortune's train ? 
Are there for evil past who sigh in vain, 

Harass'd with grief, worn out with toiling care ? 
Whoe'er ye are, whose bosoms throb with pain, 

Deem not your own distress beyond compare. 
But learn from heavier griefs your lighter load to bear. 

Hapless the lover in his nymph's disdain. 

Hapless the mariner by tempests driven. 
Hapless the cripple bent with age and pain. 

Hapless the blind amid the ligbt of heaven ; 
More hapless still the wretch who long has striven. 

And o'er his fierce desires no battle won : 
But, oh ! how hapless he, whose heart is riven 

With conscious guilt ! on whom the glorious sun 
Shines with unwelcome ray, and tells of mischief done ! 






STANZAS 



05^ THS 



©eats of J^it .Samuel llomittp^ 



Overwhelming indeed is the anguish we feel. 
And tearless the sorrow we nurse for thy lot i 

It is not a pang that to-morrow may heal, 
Nor is it a grief which can soon be forgot. 



There are woes which descend like the bolt of Jove- 
thunder ! 

That suddenly, crushingly, fall on the heart ; 
Enwrapping our feelings in terror and wonder, 

And bidding the hopes we most eherish'd depait ! 



Even such is thy death ! It is felt as a blow 

By thousands who honoured and reverenc'd thy Name| 

In whose hearts it awakened that eloquent glow 
Of pure patriot love., which no titles can claim. 



30 

When the cup of thy bitterness rose to its height. 

Though we mourn'd for thy sake, yet we did not 
despair; 

We still cherish'd hopes : they are now quenched in night^ 
And bitter the grief thou hast left us to bear. 



Yet think not, how gloomy soever may seem 

The clouds which envelop'd thy sun's setting ray. 

These can totally hide every heart -cheering beam 
It had shed on our souls through its glorious day. 



No ! deep as the darkness may be that enshrouds 
Our spirits, and transiently shadow'd thy own; 

Thy memory hereafter shall scatter the clouds. 

And thy long-cherish'd worth be remember'd alone. 



Oh ! well may that memory be sacred and dear ; 

Well may we that worth in our bosoms enshrine; 
For whom hast thou left we can call thy compeer ? 

W^hose talents and virtues shall make up for thine ? 



Star after star, which attracted our gaze. 

We have hail'd with delight, and then bade them 
adieu ! 
And Sun after Sun, while we bask'd in its blaze. 

Has sunk from our sight, and deserted us too ! 



37 

The mighty have fallen, and left us to mourn 1 
The Champions of Freedom are laid in the dust; 

And the arms which her standard had fearlessly borne,; 
Stern Death has compell'd to relinquish their trust. 

Oh ! never was Liberty's banner unfurlM, 

But thy glance caught its glory, thy heart awn'd its 
worth ; 
'Twas thy wish it should float o'er the civiliz'd world,. 
And heav'n's winds waft its fame to the ends of the 
earth ! 

And ne'er had that greatest of causes, a friend 

More conspicuously good, more consistently great; 

Who more earnestly labour'd its weal to defend, 
In defiance of despots, and tyranny's hate. 

Whether Africa's offspring thy succour might need, 
Or thy own injur'd countrymen ask for thy aid 5 

Or he, to whom conscience dictated a creed 

Dissenting from that which his country display 'd; 

Or whether our code, writ in letters of blood, 

Call'd thy eloquence forth: thou must rank amongst 
those 
Who for Man's hopes and happiness nobly have stood, 
And patiently strove to alleviate his woes. 
E 2 



38 

And oh ! if we turn from thy glorious career 
In the senate, and fix for a moment our gaze 

On thy track in an humbler and happier sphere ; 
How bright, and how blissful the scene it displays. 

As a Friend, and a Father, can aught e'er atone 

For the loss of thy friendship ? — still more of thy lover 

As a Husband I — 'tis past! and thy spirit has flown 
To the Father of Spirits, who reign eth above. 

To His merciful judgment we humbly commend thee. 
Who remembers our frailty, and pities it too ; 

Our love, our esteem, and our warm prayers attend thee : 
Best of Patriots and Statesmen ! we bid thee adieu ! 



S9 



VERSES TO AN INFANT. 



Blessings rest on thee, happy one ! 

All that parental love 
Could ask, or wish, since life begun. 

Be given thee from above. 

Fruitless the wish, and vain the prayer. 

For perfect bliss, would be ; 
Thou canst not shun what all must share. 

Nor 'scape from sorrow free. 

What all must meet, thou canst not miss ; 

Yet mayst thou, sweet one ! know 
Capacity to relish bliss. 

And strength to combat wo. 

May that pure innocence, which now 

Is infancy's best spell, 
Encircle long thy cloudless brow, 

And in thy bosom dwell. 



40 

It is the talisman, whose touch 

Is like IthuriePs spear; 
And it shall teach thee, us'd as such, 

Both what to love and fear. 

In all the countless codts and creeds 
Which man for man has plann'd. 

Is much, that he who oftenest reads 
Can never understand. 

May these be as a volume seaPd ; — 

A fountain clos'd to thee ; 
And in thy heart shall be reveaPd 

Life's true philosoplij. 

Thus should it be ; for thou art one 
Round whom the enli^ht'ning raj 

Of nature's outward, glorious sun. 
Will freely sport and play. 

And the unchartered breeze, that sweeps 

Thy native valley fair. 
Will dry the tear thy young eye weeps. 

And wave thy flowing hair. 

Then be a child of nature's school, 

Her silent teachings trace ; 
And she shall fit thee for the rule 

Of holy, heavenly grace* 



41 

For they are still the truly wise, 

Who earliest learn to look 
On earth's best charms, on sun, and skies, . 

As wisdom's open book. 

There may thy dawning reason read 

Instruction, line by line; 
And guileless thought, and virtuous deed, 

In life's first bloom be thine. 

Thus taught, nor art, nor base deceit 

Shall mar thy opening youth ; 
Thy heart with healthful hopes shall beat, 

Thy tongue be tun'd to truth. 

And when, through childhood's paths of flowers-. 

Thy infant steps have trod. 
Thy soul shall be, in after hours, 

Prepar'd to learn of God ! 

His Spirit, plac'd within thy hearty 

Shall fill it, from above. 
With grace to act a Christian's part. 

And keep it pure by love. 

And thou shalt find, in every stage 

Of ripening soul and sense. 
That virtue's guard, in youth, in age., 

Is holy innocence ! 



4B 

Farewell ! I dare not hope that prayer 
Of mine can prove of worth ; 

Yet this may not disperse in air. 
Since thou hast given it birth. 

Oh, for thj sake ! and theirs no less. 

Who on thy being build ! 
May the warm hopes these lines express. 

In mercy be fulfiU'd, 



43 



CSe 3lBemorp 



H M^ 



Farewell ! but think not thy memory shall perish I 
It shall shine through our hearts as thy virtues have 
done; 

And affection and friendship its lustre shall cherish, 
As bright and as clear as the calm setting sun. 

We mourn not for thee ; though too early thou'st left us. 
Thou hadst nothing to do, but to die and be blest ; 

For Death, which has thus of thy presence bereft us. 
Was to thee but the herald of quiet and rest. 

Well, peace to thy slumbers! that peace the world 
gives not; 
And visions of bliss through the jiight of the tomb ; 
Till thou wak'st in that heaven where pale sorrow lives 
not. 
But pleasures immortal around thee shall bloom. 



44 

I remember when prospects as bright and unclouded, 
As thy own peaceful heart, seem'd thy heritage here ; 

And I sigh'd for thy sake, when adversity shrouded 
A landscape so lovely, so calm, and so clear. 

But 'tis over! and now, unto Faith's piercing vision. 
The clouds are dispersing, which darken'd before; 

Through Death's gloomy portal shine prospects elysian, 
A vista which sorrow shall shadow no more. 

Farewell ! then, once more : angels watch o'er thy slum- 
bers ! 

Till eternity's dawn on thy waking shall shine ; 
And oh ! may the Poet, when Death stills his numbers. 

Sink to sleep as inviting, as tranquil as thine ! 



45 



STANZAS, 



©eatg of a €f^m. 



Though parental affection lament thee, 

And anguish, which loves to recall 
Thy image, may oft represent thee 

As the fairest and loveliest of all : 
Although I must feel for such sorrovi^. 

There is so much bliss in thy lot. 
That pain from thee pleasure may borrow, 

And joy could not wish thee forgot* 



When childhood, by sin yet untainted. 

Gives up life, which it scarcely hath gain'd; 
And, ere with affliction acquainted. 

Hath its end and its object attain'd ; 
There is so much of sweet consolation. 

To soften the sorrow we feel ; 
While we mourn the severe dispensation^ 

We bow to the hand which can heal. 



46 

Beath comes not to such in his terrors^ 

His pains are half pangless to them; 
Crimes have not succeeded to errors, 

Nor conscience been rous'd to condemn. 
The prospect before and behind them 

Awakes not one heart-stinging sigh ; 
The season of suffering assign'd them 

May be bitter, but soon is gone by. 



There is much to relieve, and restore us 

To peace, when the Child which we lov'd 
Hath ascended to glory before us, 

Not unblest, though in mercy unproved ! 
Fond fancy gives birth to the feeling 

That part of ourselves is at rest; 
Hope, humble, but holy and healing, 

Sheds its balm in the yet bleeding breast. 



Who knows but the beings who bound us 

With tenderest ties to this world. 
Though unseen, may be hovering around us. 

With their cherub-like pinions unfurPd ? 
Although not to our senses permitted 

To be visible, still they are near ; 
And the feelings they prompt are most fitted 

To dry up the sorrowing tear. 



47 

They tell us that change of existence 

Has not sever'd, but strengthen'd each tie ; 
And, that though we may think them at distance, 

Yet still they are spiritually ni^h. 
There yet is an unbroken union, 

Though mortality's curtain may fall ; 
And souls may keep up their communion. 

Through the God of the spirits of all ! 



48 



STANZAS 



ADDRESSED TO PERCY BYSSHE SHELLY. 



Forests, and lakes, iiie majesty of mountains. 

The dazzling glaciers, and the musical sound 
Of waves and winds, or softer gush of fountains : 

In sights and sounds like these thy soul has found 
Sublime delight; but can the visible bound 

Of this small globe be the sole nurse and mother 
Of knowledge and of feeling ? Look around ! 

Mark hovt^ one being differs from another ; 
Yet tlie world's book is spread before each human bro- 
ther. 



[No one can more admire the genius of this highly-g-ifted man, 
than I do ; but, in exact proportion to my admiration, is the re- 
g-ret I feel, for what I consider as the perversion of powers so 
rarCj the misapphcatlon of talents so splendid.] 



49 

Was this world, then, the parent and the nurse 

Of him whose mental eye outlived the sight 
Of all its beauties ?— Him who sang the curse 

Of that forbidden fruit, which did invite 
Our first progenitors, whom that foul sprite. 

In serpent form, seduc'd from innocence. 
By specious promises, that wrong and right, 

Evil and good, when they had gather'd thence, 
Should be distinctly seen as by diviner sense ? 

They pluck'd, and paid the awful penalty 

Of disobedience : yet man will not learn 
To be content with knowledge that is free 

To all. There are, whose soaring spirits spurn 
At humble lore, and, still insatiate, turn 

From living fountains to forbidden springs : 
Whence having proudly quaif' d, their bosoms burn 

With visions of unutterable things, 
Which restless fancy's spell in shadowy glory brings. 

Delicious the delirious bliss, while new ; 

Unreal phantoms of wise, good, and fair, 
Hover around, in every vivid hue 

Of glowing beauty; these dissolve in air. 
And leave the barren spirit bleak and bare 

As alpine summits : it remains to try 
The hopeless task (of which themselves despair) 

Of bringing back those feelings now gone by, 
By making their own dreams the code of all society. 
F 2 



50 

" All fear, none aid them, and few comprehend ;'' 

And then comes disappointment, and the blight 
Of hopes, that might have bless'd mankind, but end 

In stoic apathy, or starless night : 
And thus hath many a spirit, pure and bright. 

Lost that effulgent and ethereal ray, 
Which, had religion nourish'd it, still might 

Have shone on, peerless, to that perfect day. 
When death's veil shall be rent, and darkness dash'd 
away. 

Ere it shall prove too late, thy steps retrace: 

The heights thy muse has scaPd, can never be 
Her loveliest, or her safest dwelling-place. 

In the deep valley of humility. 
The river of immortal life flows free 

For thee — for all. Oh ! taste its limpid wave. 
As it rolls murmuring by, and thou shalt see 

Nothing in death the Christian dares not brave, 
Whom faith in God has given a world beyond the 
grave ! 



51 
HYMN, 

GOSIFOSED rOR THE OHILDIIEK^ OF A 

SUNDAY SCHOOL. 



O Thou ! to whom the grateful song 
Of prayer and praise is due. 

Hear, we entreat, our childish throng, 
And grant thy blessing too. 

On those who have so kindly strove 

Thy precepts to instil ; 
Who strive to teach us how to love. 

And do thy holy will ; 

On such, Lord ! thy mercies shed, 

Who, in this world of wo. 
Like fountains, with fresh waters fed, 

Bear blessings as they flow. 

And may we, planted by such streams, 
Like flowers, which love to lave 

Their bending branches in the beams 
Which warm their pu^ent wave : 



52 

May we, thus blest, yet humbly bow 
To Thee, the Source of Love ! 

And drawing nurture from below, 
Breathe brightness from above. 

Then shall we, while on earth we live. 

To thine a comfort be ; 
And wither, but through death to live 

An endless life with Thee ! 



53 



VERSES 



jlBemotp of d&ataS Cantiler, 



DOUBT not thy memory liveth 
In the hearts of survivors on earth ! 

And soothing the pleasure it giveth 
To mourners who muse on thy worth. 

But, though we can never forget thee. 
And though we believe thou art blest, 

We cannot but deeply regret thee, 
And long shall thy loss be confest. 

For thine was a mind richly gifted 
With talents not frequent in youth ; 

Yet by vanity never uplifted 

Above usefulness, meekness, and truth. 

We had hopes it was pleasure to nourish, 
(Then how shall our sorrow be mute ?) 

That those bright buds of genius would flourish, 
And burst into blossoms and fruit. 



54 

But our hopes and our prospects are shaded. 
For the plant which inspir'd them hath shed 

Its foliage, all green and unfaded, 
Ere the beauty of spring-time hath fled. 

Like foam on the crest of the billow. 

Which sparkles, and sinks from the sight ; 

Like leaf of the wind -shaken willow. 
Though transiently, beauteously bright ; — 

Like dew-drops, exhaPd as they glisten ; 

Like perfume, which dies soon as shed ; 
Like melody, hush'd while we listen ;— 

Is memory's dream of the dead. 

But if such be the objects resembling 
The glimpses we, saw of thy soul ; 

How much more enduring the emblem 
Its hopes and its prospects unrol ! 

That bird, which by bards is recorded^ 

As deathless, and all but divine. 
Is now the fit emblem afforded 

Of spirits immortal as thine. 

Redeemed by the God who first made thee, 

Unto whom be the glory alone ; 
With the tree of Life only to shade thee, 

From the brightness encircling his throne : 



55 

Henceforth thou art rank'd with the daughter^ 
- To whom the " new song" hath been given ; 
Whose voice, like the voice of vast waters. 
Everlastingly echoes in heaven ! 



56 



SILENT WORSHIP. 



Though glorious, O God ! must thy temple have been. 

On the day of its first dedication. 
When the Cherubim's wings widely waving were seen 

On high, o'er the ark's holy station ; 

When even the chosen of Levi, though skill 'd 

To minister, standing before Thee, 
Retir'd from the cloud which the temple then fill'd. 

And thy glory made Israel adore Thee : 

Though awfully grand was thy majesty then ; 

Yet the w^orship thy gospel discloses, 
Less splendid in pomp to the vision of men. 

Far surpasses the ritual of Moses. 

And by whom was that ritual for ever repeal'd ? 

But by Him, unto whom it was given 
To enter the Oracle, where is reveal'd. 

Not the cloud, but the brightness of heaven. 



57 

Who, having once enter'd, hath shown- us the way, 
Lord ! how to worship before thee ; 

Not with shadowy forms of that earlier day, 
But in spirit and truth to adore thee ! 

This, this is the worship the Saviour made known. 

When she of Samaria found him 
By the patriarch's well, sitting weary, alone. 

With the stillness of noon-tide around him. 

How sublime, yet how simple the homage he taught 
To her, who inquir'd by that fountain. 

If Jehovah at Solyma's shrine would be sought r 
Or ador'd on Samaria's mountain ? 

Woman ! believe me, the hour is near. 
When He, if ye rightly would hail him, 

Will neither be worship'd exclusively here, 
Nor yet at the altar of Salem. 

For God is a Spirit ! and they, who aright 
Would perform the pure worship he loveth, 

In the heart's holy temple will seek, with delight, 
That spirit the Father approveth. 

And many that prophecy's truth can declare. 
Whose bosoms have livingly known it ; ,, 

Whom God hath instructed to worship him there. 
And convinc'd that his mercy will own it. 

G 



SB 

The temple that Solomon built to his name^, 

Now lives but in history's story ; 
Extinguish'd long since is its altar's bright flame, 

And vanish'd each glimpse of its glory. 

But the Christian, made wise by a wisdom divine. 
Though all human fabrics may falter. 

Still finds in his heart a far holier shrine^ 
Where the fire burns unquench'd on the altar ! 



59 



VERSES 



3iBemorp of 3lBatp fletcger. 



Enthusiast, fanatic, and fool. 

Many who read thy life will style thee ; 
And others, more sedate and cool. 

Will pity, who dare not revile thee. 

For me, I feel, on laying down 

The volume, neither power nor will 

To ape the critic's frigid frown : 
To flatter thee were idler still. 

While livingi praise of man to thee 

Was nothing : o'er thy mouldering earth, 

Its empty echo now would be 

But mockery of thy Christian worth ! 

Nor would I, venerable shade ! 

Now touch such high and solemn theme> 
Or this poor tribute have essaj'd. 

If thus the unthinking world would deem. 



m 

But there are those, with whom the iei^t 
Of truth is not the Gospel creed ; 

To whom thy life will be a jest, 
Thj path — a parable indeed ! 

And these, perchance to show their wit. 
Will heap thy name with obloquy ; 

And o'er thy hallow'd pages sit, 
*' Brest up in brief authority." 

To thee it matters not ; but those 
Who honour and revere thy name. 

May be allow 'd to interpose. 
And vindicate thy well-earn'd fame. 

Not for thy sake alone, but theirs 

Who tread the path which thou hast trod ; 

The church, which prompted once thy prayers. 
Thy faith, thy Saviour, and thy God ! 

These, with united voice demand 
The payment of that sacred debt ; 

Due, in a favour'd Christian land. 

When stars of righteousness have set. 

Set, but to rise with holier light ; 

Eclips'd on earth, to shine in heaven ; 
How should the chill grave's transient night 

Dim what Death's Conqueror had givep ? 



And such wast thou : a prophetess 
Worthy the church's earlier day ; 

In piety and faithfulness, 
Proving, to love is to obey. 

Sceptics may think thy life on earth 
Was madness — an enthusiast's dream ; 

And folly, in its empty mirth, 
Thy end devoid of honour deem. 

But Faith, which owns thee unforgot. 
For thy immortal spirit paiiits, 

With children of the Lord thy lot. 
Thy heritage among the Saints ! 



a 2 



62 



TO LYDIA. 



Midnight has stol'n upon me ! sound is none, 

Save when light, tinkling cinders, one by one, 

Fall from my fire ; or its low, fluttering blaze, 

A faint and fitful noise at times betrays ; 

Or distant baying of the watch-dog, caught 

At intervals. It is the hour of thought ; 

Canst thou then marvel, now that thought is free. 

Memory should w^ake, and Fancy fly to thee ? — 

That she should paint thee, wrapp'd in peaceful sleep 

While round thy happy pillow spirits keep 

Their post unseen : those watchers of the night, 

Who, o'er the innocent, with fond delight 

Stand centinels, and, by their guardian power. 

Preserve from evil virtue's slumbering hour. 

Calm, healthful, and refreshing be thy rest ! 

And be thy dreams as blissful, as e'er blest. 

In Fancy's sweetest, purest, loveliest mood, 

The hours of stillness and of solitude ! 



6S 



MEDITATIONS 



GREAT BEALINGS CHURCH-YARD. 



It is not only while we look upon 

A lovely landscape, that its beauties please : 
In distant days, when we afar are gone 

From such, in fancy's idle reveries, 
Or moods of mind which memory loves to seize, 

It comes in living beauty ; fresh as when 
We first beheld it ; valley, hill, or trees 

O'ershadovving unseen brooks ; or outstretch'd fen, 
Wiih cattle sprinkled o'er, exist, and charm again. 

Such pictures silently and sweetly glide 

Before my " mind's eye ;" and I welcome them 
• The more, because their presence has supplied 
A joy, as pure and stainless, as the gem 
That morning finds on blossom, leaf, or stem 

Of the fair garden's Queen, the lovely Rose; 
Ere breeze, or sunbeam, from her diadem. 

Have stol'n one brilliant, and around she throws 
Her perfumes o'er the spot which with her beauty glows. 



64 

Bear witness, many a lov'd and lovely scene, 

Which I no more may visit ; are ye not 
Thus still my own ? Thy groves of shady green, 

Sweet Gosfield I* or thou, wild, romantic spot! 
Where, by grey craggy cliff, and lonely grot. 

The shallow Dovet rolls o'er his rocky bed : 
You still remain as fresh, and unforgot. 

As if but yesterday mine eyes had fed 
Upon your charms ; and yet months, years, since then 
have sped — 

Their silent course. And thus it ought to be, 

Should I sojourn far hence in distant years, 
Thou lovely dwelling of the dead ! with thee : 

For there is much about thee that endears 
Thy peaceful landscape ; much the heart reveres, 

Much that it loves, and all it could desire 
In meditation's haunt, when hopes, and fears 

Have been too busy, and we would retire. 
Even from ourselves awhile, yet of ourselves inquire. 

Then art thou such a spot as man might choose 

For still communion : all around is sweet. 
And calm, and soothing; when the light breeze woos 

The lofty limes that shadow thy retreat, 
Whose interlacing branches, as they meet, 

O'ertop, and almost hide the edifice 
They beautify ; no sound, except the bleat 

Of innocent lambs, or notes which speak the bliss 
Of happy birds unseen. What could a hermit miss? 
* Gosfield Park, near Halstead, in Essex, 
t Dove-dale, in Derbyshire, 



Q5 

Enough there is of life, to bind him to 

The living; and still more here is to guide 
His thoughts and feelings, bj a nat'ral clue. 

To those who thought and felt like him, then died ; 
And now in quiet slumber, side by side, 

Still challenge kindred, by a holy link, 
That not e'en Death can totally divide ; 

Do we not feel this, when, upon the brink 
Of a yet unfill'd grave, we pause, compelPd to think? 

We do, for whomsoe'er that grave is ope ; 

Or young, or middle-ag'd, or if the flight 
Of time, have had with such unusual scope: 

Whether its inmate claim the pensive rite 
Of friend, or kinsman ; or if such were quite 

A stranger, living: Nature will be heard; 
Reason, and Revelation, both unite 

Their voice with her's, proclaiming how absurd 
Earth's vain distinctions are, though eagerly preferred .- 

Yes, thou, stern Death ! art, after all, the best 

And truest teacher, an unflattering one. 
And yet we shun thee like some baneful pest. 

In youth, we fancy life is but begun : 
Then active middle-age comes hurrying on. 

And leaves us less of leisure; and, alas! 
Even in age, when slowly, surely run 

The few last sands which linger in the glass, 
We mourn how few remain, how rapidly they pass? 



66 

But His not tliee we fear, if thou wert all; 

Thou might'st be brav'd, although in thee is much 
To wither up the nerves, the heart appal : 

Not the mere icy chillness of thy touch. 
Nor nature's hopeless struggle with thy clutch 

In tossing agony : in thyself, alone. 
Thou hast worse pangs ; at least I deem them such. 

Than any mere corporeal sense can own, 
Which, without future fears, might make the bravest 
groan. 

For, wert thou all, in thee there is enough 

To touch us to the quick : to part with all 
We love, might try a heart of sternest stuff. 

And in itself would need what man could call 
Of strength and courage ; but to feel the thrall 

Of rending ties twine closer round the heart ; 
To see, while on our own eyes shadows fall 

Darker, and darker, tears of anguish start. 
In lov'd-ones looking on us; saying, " Must we parti*' 

This is indeed enough. I never stood 

But once beside a dying bed ; and there 
My spirit was not in the fittest mood. 

Perhaps, to be instructed, save to bear! 
And this is somewhat to be taught us, where 

We fancied it impossible : I say 
But once it yet has been my lot to share 

Such scene ; and that> though now a distant day, 
Conviuc'd me what it was to pass from life away. 



(57 

Yet there was comfort in that death -bed scene: 

Piety, resignation, hope, faith, peace — 
All that might render such an hour serene, 

Attended round, and in the slow decrease 
Of life's last ling'ring powers, for calm release 

Prepar'd the sufF'rer; and, when life was flown. 
Though not abruptly could our sorrows cease. 

We felt that sorrow for ourselves alone ; 
Not for the quiet dead, around whom there was thrown-— 

Calmness, as 'twere a canopy: the spirit 

Seem'd like the prophet in his parting hour, 
(When he threw back, to him who was to inherit 

His gift, the mantle, as his richest dower,) 
To have left behind it somewhat of the power 

By which the o'ershadowing clouds of death were 
riven ; 
So that, round those who gaz'd, they could not lower 

With rayless darkness ; but a light was given 
Which made e'en tears grow bright : " 'twas light from 

[heaven !" 
Of thee no more : in truth I scarce can tell 

What now recall'd thee to my thoughts ; unless 
This spot, where those who have bade earth farewell 

Sleep peacefully, such memories should impress. 
But, see ! the sun has set; and now, to bless 

With quietness and beauty, softer far 
Than that of day, with pensive tenderness. 

As best befits the scene, the evening star 
Lights up its trembling lamp, to greet pale Cynthia's car. 



68 

Onward the queen of night advances : slow 

Through fleecy clouds with majesty she wheels : 
Yon tower's indented outline, tombstones low. 

And mossy grey, her silver light reveals : 
Now quivering through the lime-trees' foliage steals ; 

And now each humble, narrow, nameless bed, 
Whose grassy hillock not in vain appeals 

To eyes that pass by epitaphs unread. 
Rise to the view. How still the dwelling of the dead ! 

It is a scene that well may call me back. 

If any could, to solemn, tender themes ; 
Let me then once more turn me to the track 

My thoughts were journeying : it is one that teems 
With truths of high import, not baseless dreams. 

I said that death was not, abstractedly, 
Were it but all, so dreadful as it seems ; 

Howe'er acute may be the agony, 
'Tis brief, soon must be past, and yet we fear to die. 

So much we fear it, in our natural state, 

That all of want, of wretchedness, and wo 
Combin'd, that can upon existence wait, 

W^ill not induce us calmly to forego 
The life we loathe, yet cling to. Wherefore so ? 

Why, but because the deep instinctive awe 
Of something else, which reason cannot show. 

Or shows but faintly, makes our spirits draw 
Back from an unknown world.— 'Tis nature's primal 
law\ 



69 

Wisely this fear is rooted in the heart, 

Even in that which knows no nobler rule ; 
If not, when hopeless anguish said, depart ! 

When passion stung the proud, contempt the fool ; 
What should deter the one till frenzy cool. 

And make the other one brief moment wise ? 
What but that feeling, learnt in nature's school ? 

Which prompts us, spite of sophistry and lies. 
To pause, before we dare a depth no sight descries. 

But is this all ? Is this the state of man ? — 

Of him but little less than angels made ; 
The master -work of God's creative plan. 

After his image fashion'd, and array'd 
With powers to think — will — ^act; by whom is sway'd 

The visible sceptre of this lower sphere ? 
Is he thus doom'd, by life, by death dismay 'd. 

To discontent and hopeless misery here ? 
Oh ! think not thus of man : the Gospel more revere. . 

" The sting of death is sin I" From sin redeem'd. 

By him who died upon the cross, to save 
Mankind, (O be his death not unesteem'd!) 

A way is open'd unto all who crave 
His guidance, not to live of sin the slave. 

Nor die in dark despair : be it thine to cling 
To Him who won this victory o'er the grave. 

And drew from death his direst, keenest sting ; 
So shalt thou, in his time, his glorious praises sing. 

H 



70 

"Thanks be to God, who giveth evermore 

The victory, through Jesus Christ our Lord !" 
Such is the joyful anthem; but before 

Its full, triumphal echoes can be pour'd 
Through heaven's high courts, and God can be ador'd 

By thee, in that beatitude, thou must 
Be born again ; and thus, by grace restor'd 

Unto his favour, even from the dust 
Thou shalt be rais'd again, to join the good and just. 

For this corruptible must first put on 

An essence incorrupt ; this mortal be. 
Ere such pure blessedness by man is won. 

Clothed upon with immortality. 
Then, from corruption's deep defilements free. 

Mortal in immortality array'd ; 
Death shall be swallow'd up in victory ; 

And thou, thy thirst by living streams allay 'd, 
Shalt enter in the gates where pain nor grief invade. 

But I am vent 'ring on a theme more high 

Than muse of mine should dare to touch upon ; 
Its dazzling glories dim her aching eye ; 

Imagination, which afar had gone. 
Owns, as she often heretofore has done, 

Even !ier loftiest flights are far too low 
For such a therae ; by truth acknowledg'd one. 

Which were it handled as it ought, would grow. 
Too bright, too splendid far, for mortal ken to know. 



71 

And jet it is inspiring, and must tend 

To elevate the mind, and purify 
From low desires, to have its thoughts ascend 

At times on eagle-wings, and heaven-ward fly ; 
Soaring above the vast and starry sky, [space, 

Through worlds and systems crowding boundless 
To Him who fram'd the whole ; whose watchful eye, 

And power supreme, in beauty, order, grace. 
Upholds them all, and gives to each its destin'd place. 

Nor do such flights as these, indulg'd with awe. 

And due remembrance of our nothingness. 
Improperly exalt : those who withdraw 

Thus from themselves, into the mighty press 
Of thoughts unutterable, from the excess 

Of their o'erwhelming majesty, must feel 
(Can finite in infinitude do less?) 

The irresistible, though mute appeal. 
Which these unto the heart intelligibly reveal. 

Dost thou inquire what train of thought could lead 
My mind, from such a spot, to these unsought 

And unconnected musings ? Some who read. 
May think them such; and yet they have been 
brought 

To me in seeming order. What is thought ? 

~ Imagination's vast and shoreless sea. 

Which, shifting light and darkness play athwart 
In rapid change ; inscrutable, and free, 
A mirror, where we find forms of all things that be* 



7^ 

And as, when first creative Power employ'd 

Its energies ; when darkness ruPd the deep, 
A mighty Spirit, moving o'er the void. 

And waste of waters, rous'd from chaos' sleep 
The mass of matter ; so may those who keep 

Observant watch within, discover there 
Fathomless depths, o'er which at times may creep. 

By many known not, light which would prepare 
That inert, shapeless mass, and power divine declare. 

But thou, my unknown reader, think'st, perhaps, 

I touch again on subjects, all unfit 
For me to cope with. Bear with me : the lapse 

Of time, and much that time has brought with it^ 
If it have taught me little else, has lit 

A lamp within ; and though too oft it may 
But render darkness visible, there flit, 

In calmer hours, before its trembling ray, 
Forms which are not of earth, nor can with time decay. 

We live but idly, if we learn not this. 

That in our bosoms we must find, at last. 
Or poignant wretchedness, or purest bliss. 

It boots but little, if our lot be cast 
In wealth, or poverty ; or hoiv are pass'd 

The few short years we have to spend below : 
Even while they seem to linger, they fly fast. 

And, when the last has fled, we feel, and know. 
That where the dead are gone, ourselves must like- 



73 

All this we know before ! then why discuss 

Subjects so trite? Why this, I own, is true; 
And yet, to beings fallible like us. 

Such truths, though trite, are worth recalling too. 
But I must once more look upon this view. 

Before I leave it: night has cloth'd it now 
With added beauties : lovelily the hue 

Of silvery moonlight rests upon the brow 
Of those soft-swelling uplands ; through each rustling- 
bough — 

Of these tall limes, it gently finds its way. 

Shifting, with every breeze, its flitting gleam ; 
And, while I watch its ever -varying ray, 

I catch, at intervals, from yonder stream. 
Music so soft, that fancy half could deem 

From viewless harps such liquid murmurs fell ; 
The scene, in truth, is like some lovely dream. 

Thrown o'er the spirit by enchanter's spell : — 
One more look ere I part ! 'Tis given, and now, fare- 
well ! 



h2 



74 
VERSES 

WITH A COPT OF THE PRECEDING, 



I promis'd thee, that, soon or late. 
Your burial-ground should be, 

Wouldst thou with gentle patience wait, 
A theme of verse to me. 

So long, alas ! did I delay 

The tribute thus decreed it. 
That thou, half angrily, didst say, 

When wrote, thou would'st not read it ! 

But I defy the idle threat. 

In peevish mood held out. 
For reasons two -fold, which, as yet, 

I see no cause to doubt. 

The first is curiosity ! 

Your sex's master-spell. 
Nay 1 look not so reproachfully, 

T feel its force as well. 



75 

Nor am I much asham'd to ows 

This fault, if fault it be ; 
Much worse, I guess, might soon be shown. 

Or 'twere not shar'd with thee. 

But let that pass : one reason jet 

Remains for thee to hear. 
Why I should hold thy playful threat 

As one I need not fear. 

It is because the spot, thus made 

The scene of thoughts of mine. 
Is one that often is portray'd 

By Fancy unto thine. 

When absent from it, does it not 

Arise to Memory's view. 
Like an endear'd and hallow'd spot. 

Where thought and feeling grew— 

From strength to strength? Oh, thus it should! 

For, howsoe'er we roam. 
Hearts happy, guileless, pure, and good, 

Must turn to childhood's home. 

Then be the song which owes its birth 

To thee, by thee approv'd ; 
If not for its intrinsic worth, 

Yet for its theme belov'd. 



76 

And should it seem to thee to wear 

Of graver thoughts the hue. 
With such I know that thou wait bear. 

If feeling own them true.' 

The brightest, gayest thoughts of mirth, 
If thought to mirth be given. 

Can only lend a charm to earth; 
But graver — lead to heaven! 



n 



WINTER 



Thou hast thy beauties : sterner ones, I own. 
Than those of thy precursors ; yet to thee 
Belong the charms of solemn majesty 
And naked grandeur. Awful is the tone 
Of thy tempestuous nights, when clouds are blown 
By hurrying winds across the troubled sky; 
Pensive, when softer breezes faintly sigh 
Through leafless boughs, with ivy overgrown. 
Thou hast thy decorations too ; although 

Thou art austere : thy studded mantle, gay 
With icy brilliants, which as proudly glow 
As erst Golconda's ; and thy pure array 
Of regal ermine, when the drifted snow 
Envelopes nature ; till her features seem 
Like pale, but lovely ones, seen when we dream, 



78 



OTAHSAS 



TO A miESTB. 



Thou dost Hot need that verse of mine 

Should speak my thanks, or paint thy worth ; 

And yet a friendship firm as thine 
May bear what gratitude gives birth. 

Thou art not like those flowers that ask 

The aid of art, as frail as fair ; 
Which in conservatories bask, 

But wither in the open air : 

These stem no storm, and brook no blast ; 

Though bright their blossoming may be ; 
Their perfume pleases, and is past ; 

And can such things be types of thee ? 

They cannot ! But I've seen, ere now. 
On some wild ruin, moss'd and grey j 

A flower as fair, as sweet as thou. 
Blessing with bloom its latest day. 



79 

And while its loveliness has lent 

Fresh beauty to that mouldering wall, 

It seem'd as if its sweets were sent 
To make up for the loss of all. 

The winds might howl, the ruin rock ; 

It flourished fearlessly, and fair ; 
It shrunk not from the impending shock ; 

It spoke defiance to despair. 

And thus, in seasons dark and drear, 
When I have felt, how oft, alas ! 

With many a mute, foreboding fear. 
The ruin of what once I was ; 

Thy friendship, like that faithful flower. 

Surviving much, defying all. 
Has caus'd on sorrow's saddest hour 

Some streaks of happier hue to fall. 

Heaven bless thee for it ! and believe 
That he who bids the gentle dew 

Refresh the wall -flower every eve. 
And morning sunbeams warm it too : 

O doubt not He will doubly bless 

What purest friendship hath inspir'd ; 

And, for its worth, and faithfulness. 
Return what it hath not requir'd. 



. 80 

And long may I, by fate bereft 
Of much, most justly dear to me^ 

Still fondly learn its frowns have left 
For soothing thoughts, a theme in thee ! 



81 



SONNET 



TO THE DEBEN, 



Thou windest not through scenery which enchants 

The gazer's eye with much of grand or fair ; 

Yet on thy margin many a wandering pair 
Have found that peaceful pleasure nature grants 
To those who seek her in her humbler haunts. 

And love and prize them, because she is there ; 
May I then, now the setting sunbeam slants 

Upon thy bosom, in those pleasures share ? 
Thanks unto Nature, she hath left me yet 

Some of those better feelings which were born 
In childhood : may their influence never set ; 

But may it be as gradually withdrawn, 
As yon sun's beams from thee ; chiding regret 

By the bright promise of a cloudless morn^ 



S2 



TO 



WILLIAM WORDSWORTH ; 



ON THE PUBLICATION OF HIS POEM, ENTITLED 



"PETER BELL." 



Beautiful Poet ! as thou art. 
In spite of all that critics tell, 

I thank thee, even from mj heart, 
For this, thy tale of " Peter Bell." 

It is a story worthy one 

Who thinks, feels, loves, as thou hast done. 

It is a story worthy too 

Of a more simple, primal age. 
When feelings, natural, tender, true, 

Hallow'd the poet's humblest page. 
Ere trick'iy had usurp'd the place 
Of unsophisticated grace. 



83 

I quarrel not with those who deem 

Essential to poetic mood. 
High-sounding phrase, and lofty theme, 

And " ready arts to freeze the blood ;" 
Intent to dazzle, or appal ; 
But nature still is best of all. 



To be by taste's and fashion's laws 

The favourite of this fickle day ; 
To win the drawing-room's applause. 

To strike, to startle, to display. 
And give effect, would seem the aim 
Of most who bear the poet's name. 

For this, one idol of the hour, 

Brilliant and sparkling as the beams 

Of the glad sun, culls every flower. 

And scatters round dews, gems, and streams. 

Until the wearied, aching sight, 

is " blasted with excess of light." 

Another leads liis readers on 

With scenery, narrative, and tales 

Of legends wild, and battles won — 
Of craggy rocks, and verdant vales j 

Till, always on amazement's brink. 

We find we have no time to think. 



84 

And last, not least, ^ master mind. 
Around whose proud and haughty brow, 

Had he but chosen, might have twin'd 
The muses' brightest, greenest bougfi. 

Who, would he his own victor be. 

Might seize on immortality. 

He too, forsooth, with morbid vein. 
Must fling a glorious fame away ; 

Instruction and delight disdain, 

And make us own, yet loathe his sway : 

From Helicon he might have quaff'd. 

Yet turn'd to Acheron's deadly draught, 

shame and glory of our age ! 

With talents such as scarcely met 
In bard before : thy magic page 

Who can peruse without regret ? 
Or think, with cold, unpitying mien. 
Of what thou art, and mighVst have been 9 



No more of such : from these I turn. 
From sparkling wit, and amorous lays : 

From glooms that chill, and " words that burn," 
And gorgeous pomp of feudal days ; 

I turn from such, as things that move 

Wonder and awe, but wake not love. 



85 

To thee, and to thy page despis'd 
By worldly hearts, I turn with joy. 

To ponder o'er the lays I priz'd. 
When once a careless, happy boy ; 

And all that fascinated then. 

More understood, delights again. 

Nor is it, Wordsworth, trivial test 
Of thy well-earn'd poetic fame. 

That the untutor'd youthful breast 
Should cherish with delight thy name 

If feeling be the test of truth. 

That touchstone is best prov'd in youth. 

Thine is no complicated art. 
Which after-life alone can give 

The power to appreciate : in the heart 
Its purest, holiest canons live ; 

And nature's tact is most intense 

In the soul's early innocence. 

*Tis then the sun, the sky, the air. 
The sparkling stream, the leafy wood^ 

The verdant fields, the mountains bare. 
Are feltf though little understood : 

We care not, seek not then to prove 

Effect, or cause : we feel, and love« 
i2 



86 

And in that day of love and feeling. 
Poetry is a heavenly art ; 

Its genuine principles revealing 
In their own glory to the heart, 

Nature's resistless, artless tone 

Awakes an echo of its own. 



These truths, for such they are, by thee^ 
Illustrious Poet ! well are seen ; 

And to thy wise simplicity 

Most sacred have they ever been; 

Therefore shalt thou, before the Nine 

Officiate, in their inmost shrine ! 

Then journey on thy way: though lowly, 
And simple, and despis'd it be ; 

Yet shall it yield thee visions holy. 
And such as worldlings never see 

Majestic, simple, meek, sublime. 

And worthy of an earlier time. 

Continue still to cultivate, 

In thy sequester'd solitude. 
Those high conceptions which await 

The musings of the wise and good ; 
Conceptions lofty, pure, and bright, 
Which fill thy soul with heavenly light. 



87 

Thou need'st not stoop to win applause 

By petty artifice of style ; 
Or studied wit, that coldly draws 

From fops or fools a vapid smile : 
And still less need'st thou stoop to borrow 
Affected gloom, or mimic sorrow. 



But take thee to thy groves and fields, 
Thy rocky vales, and mountains bare. 

And give us all that nature yields 
Of manners, feelings, habits there : 

Please and instruct the present age, 

And live in history's latest page. 



88 



AN 



ADDRESS 



TO THE SUBSCEIBERS, AND OTHKK FRIENDS, OP A FUBTD FOR ClOTHUfG 
THE CHIIDBEN OF A CHARITY SCHOOL 



Friends of the helpless! let a nameless bard 

Unto your boon its fitting meed award, 

And speak the thanks of these, themselves too young 

To trust their feelings to a faltering tongue : 

How could the muse a task more welcome take. 

Both for her own, and human nature's sake. 

Than that she now discharges ? Howsoe'er 

Imperfectly 'tis done, it must be dear 

To every better feeling, to dispense 

The thanks of childhood to beneficence. 

That education, rightly understood. 

Confers the capability of good, 

At least improves it j that it lifts the views 

Beyond enjoyments mere barbarians choose; 

That, well directed, it may richly bless. 

And train to order and to usefulness ; 

That, above all, it can enable those 

Thus taught, in hours of leisure, to unclose 



89 

The Sacred Writers' vast and varied store 
Of social, moral truth, — ^of Gospel lore : 
These you admit as axioms, known to all, 
Trite to repeat, and trifling to recall : 
Besides, perhaps you'll add, that not to you 
These children's thanks, ft)r humble lore are due ; 
But granting this, have you done nothing, then, 
To win their gratitude ? — their praise to gain ? 
Indeed you have ; and, lest you have forgot, 
I'll tell you gratefully and frankly what. 



It is ordain'd, as wisely sure it should. 

That, in the luxury of doing good. 

Such ample scope is given by Providence 

For all to exercise benevolence. 

That none, in whom the will and power unit^. 

Can be excluded from the pure delight; 

And, although each a different task employ. 

All share the labour, and partake the joy. 

As when, in trans -atlantic wastes, a band 

Of emigrants first cultivate the land. 

One clears the weeds and brambles, to prepare 

Th' encumber'd earth to admit th' upturning share ; 

A second sows the grain ; another's toil 

Some streamlet leads to fertilize the soil; 

But when the crop is borne their garners in. 

Each one partakes what all conspir'd to win : 



90 

So in the works of charity, which find 
Their own reward in every feeling mind. 
It matters not in memory's page to keep 
Who S01C7S, who waters: all alike shall reap. 

Be it your praise, then, which you well have w<)ii. 
That when the beams of education's sun 
Shone on the minds of these, and taught to shoot 
Those seeds which yet may bear immortal fruit; 
You did not then with frigid glance review 
What had been done, and deem nought left to do : 
'Twas yours, with kindred kindness, to contrive 
What best might keep the generous seed alive ; 
To apply that stimulus, which, aptly brought 
To bear upon the unfolding germs of thought. 
Might, being merWs prize, with powerful sway, 
Inculcate neatness, while it shunn'd display. 
Nor can I but commend that blameless art, 
SkilPd in the feelings of a childish heart. 
Which, far from viewing them with haughty frown. 
Held out that harmless bribe, a neat new gown ! 
Thus making e'en a love of dress conspire 
To bring about the object you desire j 
And wisely placing, too, by Learning's side. 
That virtuous love of neatness, miscaWd pride ! 
If this has been your aim, then believe ! 
More blest it is to give, than to receive ! 
Nor can these children's hearts a joy have known 
From gifts of yours, but doubly is your own. 



91 

May your example, and the joy you feel, 

Join'd with this artless, but sincere appeal. 

And back'd by all the happy, youthful glee 

Which crowns this season of festivity,* 

Bring many more to join your social band. 

And aid the accomplishment of all you've plannM. 

May those who, as spectators, share the bliss^ 

Looking with pleasure on a scene like this. 

Ere they withdraw, of their own bosoms ask, 

Can we do nothing in this pleasing task ? 

However small the boon conferr'd may be. 

If given from feelings of pure charity. 

It cannot fail to win its sure reward. 

Since, " What is given the poor is lent the Lord !" 

* This address was first circulated among the subscribers, and 
others, attending a festival, with which the children of this scbool 
were occasionally indulged. 



92 



VERSES, 



StJGGESTXD BT THE PERtrSAL OP AK EPITAPH IN BURT CHURCH-YARD. 



When Siloam's tower in fragments strew'd the ground, 

And by its fall spread awe and terror round ; 

Think ye that they on whom the ruin fell. 

Were worse than those who liv'd their fate to tell ? 

1 say unto ye, nay ! That righteous God, 

Who rules the nations with his awful nod, 

Without whose knowledge not a sparrow dies. 

Looks not on such events with human eyes ; 

The bolt he hurls, by boundless mercy sped. 

Oft strikes the saint's, but spares the sinner's head ; 

And while frail mortals scan effect and cause. 

His love pursues its own unerring laws ; 

Gives the glad saint his final recompense. 

The sinner spares, perchance for penitence. 

What though the storm might rise, the clouds might 

lower. 
And muttering thunders mark the vesper hour ; 



93 

What though the little suppliant might be taught 

A form of faith, with numerous errors fraught; 

Yet He, whose eye is on the heart alone, 

The guileless homage of this child might own : 

And, 'mid the terrors of a stormy even. 

Call, with approving smile, her soul to heaven ! 

"While simple Mary, innocently bold. 
With virtuous diligence her vespers told ; 
Who knows how many, votaries of a creed 
Which teaches purer faith in word and deed, 
With hands uplifted, but with hearts unmov'd, 
Proffer'd their supplications unapprov'd ? 
Nay, they might even, when the storm was o'er. 
Shortsightedly this damsel's fate deplore ; 
And blindly deprecate her dreadful doom. 
Thus early crown'd with glorious martyrdom* 
Not so, sweet girl, would I, a nameless bard. 
Thy happy, holy destiny regard ; 
To me thou seem'st like one, who, early fit 
For heaven, and heaven alone, wert call'd to it; 
By piety and purity prepar-d. 
And by thy sacred destiny declar'd 
In God's all-seeing and unerring eyes, 
A spotless Lamb, most meet for sacrifice ; 
And, like Elijah's lot in olden time, 
I own thy end was sudden, but sublime ; 

K 



94 



The car of glory, and the steeds of fire, 
Bore from Elisha's view his sainted sire : 
And unto thee, by hallow 'd fire from heaven. 
The boon of immortality was given ! 



The epitaph which suggested the preceding, is as follows : 

Here lies interred the Body of Mary Singleton, 

a young Maiden of this Parish, aged nine years, 

"born of Roman Catholic Parents, and Virtuously brought up: 

^vho, being in the act of prayer, repeating her Vespers, 

was instantaneously killed by a flash of Lightning, 

August 16th, 1785. 



98 



THE GALLIC EAGLE. 



Fame's favourite minion ! 

The theme of her story; 
How quail'd is thy pinion. 

How sullied its glory : 

Where blood flow'd like water. 

Exulting it bore thee ! 
Destruction and slaughter 

Behind and before thee. 

Where glory was blushing. 
Thy flight was the fleetest; 

Where death's sleep was hushing, 
Thy slumber was sweetest. 

When broad -swords were clashing 
Thy cry was the loudest ; 

When deep they were gashing, 
Thy plume was the proudest. 

But, triumph is over : 

No longer victorious. 
No more shalt thou hover. 

Destructively glorious ! 



96 

>Far from the battle's shock. 
Fate hath fast bound thee ; 

Chain'd to the rugged rock. 
Waves warring round thee. 

Instead of the trumpet's sound, 
Sea-birds are shrieking ; 

Hoarse on thj rampart's bound,, 
Billows are breaking. 

The standards which led thee 
Are trampled and torn now ; 

The flatteries which fed thee. 
Are turn'd into scorn now. 

For ensigns unfurling. 

Like sunbeams in brightness ; 
Are crested waves curling, 

Like snow-wreaths in whiteness, 

"No sycophants mock thee 
With dreams of dominion ; 

But rude tempests rock thee. 
And ruffle thy pinion. 

Thj last flight is taken, 
Hope leaves thee for ever ; 

And victory shall waken 
Thy proud spirit never ! 



9T 



STANZAS 



ADDRESSED TO SOME FRIENDS GOING TO TttZ SEA-SlSi: 



Since Summer invites you to visit once more 
The haunts she most loves on the ocean's cool shore. 
Where billows are foaming, and breezes are free. 
Accept at our parting one farewell from me. 

I can easily picture the pleasures in y'levf. 
Because before now I have shar'd them with you | 
But unable this season to taste them again, 
I must feast on such pleasures as flow from my pen. 

Let fancy then give me what fate has denied. 
And grant me at seasons to roam by your side ; 
Nor will I repine while remembrance can be 
Still blest with the moments I've spent by the sea. 

The ramble at morning, when morning first wakes. 
And the sun through the haze like a beacon-fire breaks , 
Illuming to sea-ward the billows' white foam. 
And tempting the loiterer ere breakfast to roam, 

k9 



98" 

The stroll after breakfast, when all are got out; 
The saunter, the lounge, and the looking about : 
The search after shells, and the eye glancing bright. 
If cornelian, or amber, should come in its sight. 

Nor must I forget the last ramble at eve. 
When the splendours of daylight are taking their leaver 
When the sun's setting beams, with a tremulous motion. 
Are reflected far off on the bosom of ocean. 

This, this is the time, when I think I have found 
The deepest delight from the scenery round : 
There's a freshness in morning's enjoyments, but this 
Brings with it a feeling of tenderer bliss. 

I remember an evening, though years are gone by. 
Since that evening was spent : to my heart and my eye 
It is present, by memory's magical power. 
And reflects back its light on this far distant hour. 

^Twas an evening the loveliest that Summer had seen. 
The sky was unclouded, the ocean serene : 
The sun's setting beams so resplendently bright. 
On the billows were dancing like streamers of light. 

So soothing the sounds were, which faintly I heard. 
They were sweeter than notes of the night-loving bird ; 
And so peaceful the prospect before me, it seem'd 
Like a scene of delight of which fancy bad dream'd. 



99 

There's a pensive enjoyment the pen cannot paint ; 
There are feelings which own that all language is faint; 
And such on that eve to my heart were made known. 
As I mus'd by the murmuring billows alone. 

But enough. — May your sea-side excursion fulfil 
Every hope you have form'd, be those hopes what they 

will; 
And may I, although absent, in fancy create 
Those joys which on you in reality wait. 



100 

STANZAS 

osr 

€§e ^eatS of a f tienti. 

(Obiit 1st Mo. 9th, 1820.) 



We knew that the moment was drawing nigh. 

To fulfil every fearful token ; 
When the silver cord must loosen its tie, 

And the golden bawl be broken ; 
When the fountain's vase, and the cistern's wheel, 
Sliould alike to our trembling hearts appeal. 

And now shall thy dust return to the earth. 

Thy spirit to God who gave it ; 
Yet affection shall tenderly cherish thy worth,- 

And memory deeply engrave it. 
Not upon tables of brass or stone. 
But in those fond bosoms where best 'twas known. 

Thou shalt live in mine, though thy life be fled. 
For friendship thy name shall cherish ; 

And be one of the few, and the dearly lov'd dead. 
Whom my heart will not suffer to perish : 

Who in loveliest dreams are before me brought. 

And in sweetest hours of waking thought. 



101 

But oh ! there is one, with tearful eye, 

Whose fondest desires fail her; 
Who indeed is afraid of that which is highj 

And fears by the way assail her ; 
Whose anguish confesses that tears are vain. 
Since dark are the clouds that return after rain f 

May He, who alone can scatter each cloud. 

Whose love all fear dispelleth ; 
Who, though for a season his face he shroud. 

In light and glory dwelleth, 
Break in on that mourner's soul, from above, 
And bid her look upwards with holy love. 



10^ 



STANZAS 



ON THE CONVEKSION OF THE JEWS. 



On this labour of love may a blessing attend ; 
May the Shepherd of Israel his Salem befriend. 
And hasten that period, by prophets foretold. 
When the stragglers of Judah shall rest in his fold-. 

For surely the time is approaching, when He 
"Will set, in his love, the law's prisoners free ; 
And send them to feed in the ways of his graces 
And find them a pasture in every high place. 

Behold, they shall come from afar at his word. 
Which alike in the north and the west shall be heard ; 
His uplifted standard shall Sinim's land see. 
And a light to the gentiles his people shall be. 

Awaken, O Zion 1 and put on thy strength. 
And array thee in beautiful garments at length ; 
Shake thyself from the dust, with the might of the strong. 
And cast off the bands which have bound thee so long. 



103 

The sons of the strangers thy walls shall rebuild ; 
Thy gates shall be open, thy courts shall be fill'd ^ 
God once smote thee in anger, but now thou shalt see 
That He, in his favour, hath mercy on thee. 

The Lord, in his glory, upon thee shall rise ; 
The gentiles shall come to thy light with surprise ; 
And their kings shall rejoice thy bright rising to greet. 
When God shall make glorious the place of his feet. 

Then shall ye, poor wanderers ! no longer roam wide, 
For a greater than Moses your footsteps shall guide ; 
Not unto the mount, where the trumpet once sounded, 
With blackness, and darkness, and tempest surrounded | 

But unto Mount Sion, the city of God, 
The courts of whose temples by angels are trod ; 
To the church of the first-born, recorded above. 
And the spirits of just men, perfected by love. 

And to Him, whose new priesthood shall ever endure 
More pow'rful than Aaron's, more holy, more pure ; 
Who needeth not daily oblations to make. 
Having oflfer'd up freely himself for your sake. 

If the judgments of God on your fathers went forth, 
Who were deaf unto him that spake only on earth ; 
refuse not the boon which would surely be given, 
Nor turn ye from Him who now speaketh from heaven ! 



1T)4 



THE IVY. 



.»DI>HESSED TO A T0C:NG FRIEXD. 



Dost thou not love, in the season of spring, 

To twine thee a flowery wreath. 
And to see the beautiful birch -tree fling 

Its shade on the grass beneath ? 
Its glossy leaf, and its silvery stem ; 
Oh dost thou not love to look on them ? 

And dost thou not love, when leaves are greenest 

And summer has just begun, 
When in the silence of moonlight thou leanest. 

Where glist'ning waters run. 
To see, by that gentle and peaceful beam. 
The willow bent down to the sparkling stream? 

And oh ! in a lovely autumnal day. 
When leaves are changing before thee, 

Do not nature's charms, as they slowly decay. 
Shed their own mild influence o'er thee ? 

And hast thou not felt, as thou stood'st to gaze, 

The touching lesson such scene displays ? 



105 

M should be thus, at an age like thine ; 

And it has been thus with me ; 
When the freshness of feeling and heart were mine.. 

As they never more can be : 
Yet think not I ask thee to pity my lot. 
Perhaps I see beauty where thou dost not. 

Hast thou seen, in winter's stormiest day, 

The trunk of a blighted oak. 
Not dead, but sinking in slow decay^ 

Beneath time's resistless stroke, 
Round which a luxuriant iyy had grown. 
And wreath'd it with verdure no longer its own ? 

Perchance thou hast seen this sight, and then, 

As I, at thy years might do, 
Pass'd carelessly by, nor turned again 

That scathed wreck to view : 
But now I can draw, from that mouldering tree, 
Thoughts which are soothing and dear to me. 

O smile not ! nor think it a worthless thing, 

If it be with instruction fraught ; 
That which will closest and longest cling, 

Is alone worth a serious thought ! 
Should aught be unlovely which thus can shed 
Grace on the dying, and leaves not the dead ? 

T 



106 

Now, in thy youth, beseech of Him 

Who giveth, upbraiding not. 
That his light in thy heart become not dim. 

And his love be unforgot ; 
And thy God, in the darkest of days, will be 
Greenness, and beauty, and strength to thee ! 



107 

VERSES 

€D tge cJlBemotp of ^. 25ut0e^^. 

A eHILD OF SUPBHIOR ENDOWMENTS AND EXTIIAOIIDINART PIETY, 



It is not length of years which lends 
The brightest loveliness to those 

Whose memory with our being blends. 
Whose worth within our bosoms glows. 

The age we honour standeth not 
In locks of snow, or length of days ; 

But in a life which knows no spot, 
A heart which heavenly w^isdom sway^. 

For wisdom, which is taught by truth. 
Unlike mere worldly knowledge, finds 

Its full maturity in youth, 
Its image e'en in infant minds. 

Thus was this child made early wise, 
Wise as those sages, who, from far. 

Beheld, in Bethlehem's cloudless skies. 
The Christian church's gathering star. 



108 

What more could wisdom do for them. 
Than guide them in the path thej trod f 

And the same star of Bethlehem 
Hath led his spirit home to God ! 

Well may his memory be dear. 
Whose loss is still its sole alloy. 

Whose happy lot dries every tear 
With holy hopes and humble joy. 

''■ The brightest star of morning's host/^ 
Is that which shines in twilight skies ; 

•'* Scarce risen, in brighter beams 'tis lost/' 
And vanishes from mortal eyes. 

.Its loss inspires a brief regret ; 

Its loveliness is ne'er forgot ; 
We know full well 'tis shining yet. 

Although we may behold it not. 

And thus the spirit which is gone. 
Is but absorb'd in glory's blaze ; 

In beaming brightness burning on. 
Though lost unto our finite gaze. 

There are, who w^atch'd it to the last ; 

There are, who can forget it never ; 
May these, when death's dark shade is past, 

Partake with joy its light for ever ! 



109 



WAWEAi 



TO 



HELEN M M 



Believe not that absence can banish 

The memory of moments gone by ; 
Could I deem they so lightly would vanish^ 

I should think on the past with a sigh. 
But thy image was never intended 

The source of one sorrow to be ; 
For pleasure and hope are both blended 

In each thought which arises of thee. 



'Tis not love, as that passion is painted, 

Its revival I never shall prove : 
For, long ere we two were acquainted, 

I had ceas'd e'en to think about love» 
The attachment I feel is another, 

'Tis passion from penitence free ; 
And had I to choose as a brother, 

I would look for a sister in theev 
L2 



110 

Thou need'st not, dear Helen, to doubt me, 

When I fondly and frankly confess. 
That thought in this bosom about thee 

Is busier than words can express. 
And when such ideas are springing. 

They touch such a tone and a key ; 
If my hand on my harp I am flinging. 

Its strings must be vocal to thee. 



When the sun, in his rising from ocean, 

Foretels a bright day by his dawn ; 
With eager and joyful emotion 

We exult in the beauties of morn. 
Such thine: be thy noontide the same too. 

And may age, from infirmity free. 
Calm, peaceful, as earth can lay claim to. 

In life's close, be still lovely in thee. 



grant that the picture thus painted. 

The world may not wantonly mar ! 
Keep thy soul in its whiteness untainted. 

And may innocence still be its star. 
Then, whatever the station assign'd thee. 

Though distant that station may be. 
The remembrance of friends left behind thee 

Shall dwell with delight upon th«e. 



Ill 

For affection bids distance defiance, 

Its ardour no absence can change ; 
And the links of its holy alliance 

Can reach through creation's vast range. 
Those links have so lovingly bound us. 

That, when thou art far over sea. 
Thy image shall hover around us. 

And tenderly whisper of thee. 



112 



FANCY AND IMAGINATION. 



There is a pleasure, now and then, in giving 

Full scope to Fancy and Imagination ; 
And, for a time, to seem as we were living 

In fearless, incorporeal exultation. 
Amid sweet scenes of the mind's own creation. 

Why should we not ? We surely need not deem 
That man forgets the duties of his station. 

Because he cherishes the lovely gleam 
Thrown on life's thorny path by fancy's brilliant beam-* 

No gift of God was given without its end; 

And had it not been right that we should see. 
As through this world's bleak wilderness we wend, 

Beyond the reach of dull reality. 
Imagination, fearless, fond, and free. 

Had not been given us. It has — and why ? 
But to enable us at times to be 

Partakers of those raptures pure and high. 
Unearthly beings bring before our mental eye. 



113 

The danger of such dear delights is this : 

'Tis sweet to soar, but dreary to descend ; 

To exchange for real bale, ideal bliss, 

And see the beauteous forms which round us blend 

In airy loveliness, no more befriend 

The heart they lighten'd, vanishing afar ! 

True, it is painful ! but, think we to mend 

Our mortal destiny, or rather mar. 

By quenching in our minds each brightest, loveliest star? 

The Patriarch, who laid him down to rest. 

And saw in holy visions of the night, 

'Mid opening clouds the angelic host confest, 

Ascending and descending in his sight. 

Those golden steps so glitteringly bright. 

Which led from earth to heaven — ^from heaven to earth ; 

Did he, repining at the morning light, 

Arraign the Power which gave those phantoms birth ? 

No ! with adoring heart he humbly own'd their worths 

Oh, hallow'd Fancy ! sweet Imagination ! 

Although your blessings unto me have been 

Not pure and unalloy'd ; my admiration. 

My love of you, is not the less, I ween. 

Still gild at intervals life's clouded scene ; 

And though your lofty glories brightly breaking 

On my mind's eye, be " few and far between," 

^«,x j_.;^ dreams at least, your powers partaking, 

"Wtro your sublime delights, and bless you on my waking. 



114 

PLAYFORD, 

A DESCRIPTIVE FRAGMENT.— 1817. 



Hast thou a heart to prove the power 

Of a landscape lovely, soft, and serene? 
(xo, when its fragrance hath left the flower. 

When the leaf is no longer glossy and green ; 
When the clouds ai'e careering across the sky. 
And the rising winds tell the tempest nigh. 
Though the slanting sunbeams are lingering still. 
On the tower's grey top, and the side of the hill : 

Then go to the village of Playford, and see 
If it be not a lovely spot ; 

And, if nature can boast of charms for thee, 
Thou wilt love it, and leave it not. 
Till the shower shall warn thee no longer to roam. 
And then thou wilt carry its picture home ; 
To feed thy fancy when far away, 
A source of delight for a future day. 
Its sloping green is verdant and fair, 

And between its tufts of trees 
Are white cottages, peeping here and there. 

The pilgrim's eye to please : 



115 

A white farm -house may be seen on its brow, 
And its grey old hall in the valley below. 

By a moat encircled round 5 
And from the left verge of its hill you may hear^ 
If you chance on a sabbath to wander near, 

A sabbath-breathing sound : 
'Tis the sound of the bell which is slowly ringing 

In that tower, which lifts its turrets above 
The wood-fring'd bank, where birds are singing. 
And from spray to spray are fearlessly springing. 

As if in a lonely and untrodden grove ; 
¥or the grey church-tower is far over-head ; 

And so deep is the winding lane below, 
They hear not the sound of the traveller's tread. 

If a traveller there should chance to go. 
But few pass there, for most who come. 
At the bell's last summons have left their home^ 

That bell which is tolling so slow. 
And grassy and green may the path be seen 

To the village church that leads ; 
For its glossy hue is as verdunt to view 

As you see it in lowly meads. 
And he who the ascending pathway scales, 
By the gate above, and the mossy pales. 

Will find the trunk of a leafless tree. 
All bleak, and barren, and bare ; 

Yet it keeps its station, and seems to be 
Like a silent monitor there j 



116 

Though wasted and worn, it smiles in tlie ray 
Of the bright warm sun, on a sunny day ; 

And more than once I have seen 
The moonbeams sleep on its barkless trunk. 
As calmly and .softly as ever they sunk 

On its leaves, when its leaves were green : 
And it seem'd to rejoice in their light the while, 
Reminding my heart of the patient smile 
Resignation can wear in the hour of griefs 
When it finds in religion a source of relief. 
And stript of delights which earth had given. 
Still sliines in the beauty it borrows from heaven ! 

But the bell hath ceas'd to ring ; 

And the birds no longer sing ; 
And the grasshopper's carol is heard no more ; 

Yet sounds of praise and prayer 

The wandering breezes bear, 
Like the murmur of waves on the ocean shore. 
All else is still ! but silence can be 

More eloquent far than speech ; 
And the valley below, and that tower and tree. 

Through the eye to the heart can reach. 
Could the sage's creed, the historian's tale. 
Utter language like that of yon silent vale ? 
As it basks in the beams of the sabbath-day. 
And rejoices in nature's reviving ray ; 
While its outstretch'd meadows, and autumn-ting'd trees 
^eem enjoying the suji, and inhaling the breeze. 



in 

And hath not that church a lovely look 
In the page of this landscape's open book ? 
Like a capital letter, which catches the eye 
Of the reader, and says a new chapter is nigh ; 
So its tower, by which the horizon is broken. 
Of prayer, and of praise, a beautiful token. 
Lifts up its head, and silently tells 
Of a world hereafter, where happiness dwells. 
While that scathed tree seems a link between 

The dead and the living ! — 'Tis barren and bare, 
But the grass below it is fresh and green. 

Though its roots can find no moisture there : 
Yet still on its birth-place it loves to linger. 
And evermore points with its silent finger 

To the clouds, and the sun, and the sky so fair. 



118 



VERSES 



TO SOME FBTEKD8 KETURNING FROM THE 9EA>SIB£. 



Forget not the moments 

I've vi^ander'd with you, 
When nature was gloriouR, 

And beautiful too. 

When the dash of the billow 
That broke on the beach. 

Made loftier music 

Than science can reach. 

When the clouds sailing over 

The bright azure sky, 
Look'd like structures of glory 

That proudly pass'd by. 

When the breeze sweeping near us 

Seem'd life to impart. 
And each glowing sunbeam 

Shone into the heart. 



119 

O think of those moments. 
When home you return 1 

And your social fire blazing 
Before you shall burn. 

While you, sitting by it. 

With many a smile. 
And sisterly converse. 

The hours shall beguile. 

Should fancy then wander. 

As wander it will, 
May it come back and tell you 

I think of you still. 

Should you, when 'tis starlight, 

Look out on the sky. 
And Jupiter'^s glory 

Flash full on your eye ; — 

Will you then remember 
How brightly he shone 

In your lone sea-side parlour. 
When daylight was gone ? 

And we sat and watch'd him. 
As sun-like he beam'd ; 

While far, far beneath him 
The beacoarfire gleam'd. 



120 

Oi-, when nights are storm}'. 

And winter-winds high, 
When the war of the elements 

Sweeps through the skj ;— 

Should it rouse you from slumber. 

May memory awake ; 
And the sounds that disturb jou 

Be sweet for its sake. 

Let their music remind you 

How awfully grand 
Was that of the wild waves 

On ocean's far strand ! 

Be the tone of the tempest 

Like that of the sea 
In its pauses of silence 

Give one thought to me ! 

Then turn on the pillow, 

And sleep until dawn ; 
And be health, peace, and happiness. 

Yours on the morn. 



121 

TO 



All hail to thee ! radiant ruler of night ! 
Shedding round thee thy soft and thy silvery light; 
Now touching the hill -tops, now threading the vale, 
Oh ! who can behold thee, nor bid thee all hail ? 

The monarch of day more majestic may be. 
When he rises in pomp on the verge of the sea; 
AVhen, the clouds that have curtain'd him slowly 

undrawn. 
His magnificence scatters the mists of the morn. 

His glory at noon may be greater than thine ; 
More splendid and glowing his evening decline. 
When the hues of the rainbow illumine the west, 
And millions of happy birds sing him to rest. 

But not in his rise, in his zenith, nor even 
When his parting effulgence irradiates half heaven ; 
Though grand and majestic his glory be shown. 
Does he shine with a loveliness sweet as thy own. 

M 2 



122 

The pleasures, the cares, and the business of life 
Are ever with calm contemplation at strife ; 
And, absorb'd in our selfish pursuits, we forget 
The sun and his glories, till after his set. 



But Thou comest forth when the stir is subsiding, 
Like an angel of light through the clear heavens gliding ; 
As if to remind us, ere sinking to rest. 
Of worlds more delightful, of beings more blest. 



Through the path which thj Maker has trac'd thee on 

high, 

Thou walkest, in silence, across the vast sky ; 

Suns and worlds scatter'd round thee, though brilliaiit 

they be. 
Appear but like humble attendants on thee. 



All silent thyself! yet that stillness appears 
The signal for music, as sweet as the tears 
That the dews of the night o'er the landscape distil. 
Which, seen by thy bright beams, are lovelier still. 



For the softest of sounds shed their harmony round. 
More musical far in a calm so profound ; 
The murmur of brooks, and the nightingale's song. 
And the sigh of the breeze, sweeping gently aloiigt 



12S 

These alone form thy orchestra ; yet, in the hour 
Of thy pensive dominion, and heart-touching power. 
Their exquisite magic seems fraught with a tone, 
To the music of gaudier daylight unknown. 



Roll on then, thou radiant ruler of night ! 
Exult in thy empire, rejoice in thy light ; 
Over mountain and valley, o'er ocean and isle. 
Pour down thy soft splendour, and lavish thy smile. 



For thy splendour, undazzling, and touchingly sweet. 

Is one that e'en sorrow serenely can greet ; 

And thy smile, glist'ning bright on each dew drop, ap= 

pears 
Bringing hope from on high, forimng rainbows in tears. 



I2i 



RECOLLECTIONS.^ 



All round was still and calm ; the noon of night 

Was fast approaching: up the unclouded sky 
The glorious moon pursued her path of light, 

And shed her silvery splendour far and nigh: 
No sound, save of the night-wind's gentlest sigh. 

Could reach the ear ; and that so softly blew. 
It scarcely stirr'd, in sweeping lightly by, 

The acacia's airy foliage ; faintly too 
It kiss'd the jasmine's stars which just below me grew. 

Before me, scatter'd here and there, were trees 

Whose massy outline of reposing shade, 
Unbroken by that faint and fitful breeze. 

With the clear sky a lovely contrast made : 
'Twas Nature, in her chastest charms array'd ! 

How could I then abruptly leave such scene ? 
I could not; for the beauties it display'd 

To me were dearer than the dazzling sheen 
Of noon's effulgent hour, or morning's sparkling mien. 

* These verses were first suggested by, and indeed partly com- 
posed during, a long meditated visit at a friend's house. Those 
referred to in it, the writer had once hoped to meet there. 



125 

Awhile in silent reverie I stood. 

Pensively gazing on the objects round 5 
And soon my mind, in contemplative mood^ 

Abundant theme for meditation found ; 
And far beyond the shadowy visible bound 

Of my eye's glance did eager fancy fly ; 
Nor even Virtue on her flight then frown'd. 

But mark'd her progress with approving eye. 
For heav'n-ward was her course, her visions pure and high. 

They err, who calculate Time's silent pace 

By the mere lapse of minutes, or of hours ; 
Not even thought his printless step can trace. 

Which hastens onward, over thorns and flowers. 
Nor cares for sun that shines, or storm that lowers. 

'Twere wiser far in us to count his flight 
By the improvement of our mental powers. 

And by the store of suffering, or delight, 
Which cheers Life's fleeting day, or clouds Death's 
coming night. 

Oh, there are hours ! aye moments, that contain 

Feelings, that years may pass and never bring ; 
Which, whether fraught with pleasure or with pain. 

Can hardly be forgot: as if the wing 
Of time, while passing o'er, had power to fling 

A dark'ning shade, or tint of happier hue. 
To which fond memory faithfully should cling 

In after life : I felt, and own'd it true. 
While I stood still, and look'd upon that moonlight view. 



126 

I thought of some, who once beheld, like me, 

The peaceful prospect then before me spread ; 
And its still loveliness appear'd to be 

One of those visions morning slumbers shed 
Upon the pensive mourner's pillovv'd head : 

Its beauties, less distinct, but far more dear, 
Seem'd to invoke the absent , and the dead ! 

And by some spell to bring the former near. 
Although it could not call the latter from their sphere/l 

Nor did I wish it.— No, dear Mary ! no : 

How could I ever wish thou shouldst resign, 
For any bliss this being can bestow. 

Pleasures eternal, deathless, and divine : 
Yet, when I saw the pale moon coldly shine 

On the same paths and turf which thou hadst trod. 
Forgive my vain regret ! — Yet, why repine ? 

Its beams sleep sweetly on thy peaceful sod. 
And thou thyself hast sought thy Father, and thy 
God! 

For thou wert number 'd with the " pure in heart," 

Whom Christ pronounced blessed ! and to thee. 
When thou wast summon'd from this world to part. 

We well may hope the promis'd boon would be 
Youchsaf 'd in mercy, — that thy soul should see 

Him, whom the angelic hosts of heaven adore ; 
And from each frailty of our nature free, 

Which clogg'd that gentle spirit heretofore. 
Exulting, sing His praise, who lives for evermdre ! 



Farewell ! thou lov'd and gentle one, farewell ! 

Thou hast not liv'd in vain, or died for nought ! 
Oft of thj worth survivors' tongues shall tell. 

And thy long-cherish'd memory shall be fraught 
With many a theme of fond and tender thought, 

That shall preserve it sacred. What could years. 
Or silver'd locks, of added good have brought 

Unto a name like thine ? Even the tears 
Thy early death has caus'd, thy early worth endears ! 

Mix'd with thy memory, in that moonlight scene. 

Came thoughts of one still living here below. 
Who had thy sister-like companion been. 

When first I met you both, long, long ago ; 
And all the pleasure which I us'd to know 

In your society, to my mind's eye 
Reviv'd again, ting'd with a brighter glow 

Of feeling than it wore in days gone by; [die. 

Like some delightful dream, whose influence could not 

I turn'd me to past hours, remember'd yet. 

When we together walk'd the^ ocean shore; 
What time the sun in hues of glory set. 

What time the waves obey'd the winds no ijiore. 
And music broke, where thunder burst before : 

I thought of moments when we turn'd the page 
Of Scotia's Shepherd Bard, and linger'd o'er 

His simple pictures of an earlier age, 
Kilmeny's * heav'nly trance, The Abbot's pilgrimage. 

* Vide « The Queen's Wake,"a Poem by the Ettrick Shepherd , 



12S 

These Recollections still have charms for me. 

And for their sake, my lovely friend, wilt thou 
Pardon me, if thine eye this page should see. 

The expression of my feelings then, and now: 
So may the breeze which fans thy Sister's brow 

Bear healing on its wings ! and when for home 
Once more your bark shall ocean's surface plough. 

May your bright eyes, around you as they roam. 
Tell that your hearts are light as ocean's feathery foam. 

Thou too, young Bride ! thine image pass'd me by. 

While looking on a spot to thee so dear. 
It scarcely could be left without a sigh. 

Though Love had conquer'd vain, foreboding fear 
I thought of thee ; and hope, and faith were near. 

And whisper'd tidings of thy future fate ; 
They told me too, that feelings cherish'd here. 

Should on life's after progress love to wait. 
And gild with happiest hues thy hymeneal state. 

Then, shouldst thou cast a retrospective glance 

On thy late home, may its lov'd memory seem 
Thy present pleasures only to enhance. 

By flinging from the past a vivid gleam 
Of brightness, like some well-remember'd dream. 

Which charms us when we wake to sober bliss ; 
Still be life's earliest ties a tender theme. 

Dear to affection ; and thou shalt not miss, 
In any earthly home, enjoyment found in this. 



129 

But why pursue to Memory's utmost scope 

Her " Recollections ?" Here then let them end. 
Peace to the dead! And oh ! may blissful liope 

Wait on the image of each absent friend ; 
That so with our adieus may sweetly blend 

The pleasing prospect of a future day. 
When the last parting shall but seem to lend 

To our re -union a still brighter ray, C^way. 

Like the sun's new-born beams, when night has past 

Frail is that friendship, that affection cold 

Whose transient influence is limited 
To the brief hour in which we can behold 

Their faces whom we love ; and then is fled ! 
The sweetest drops which Providence hath shed 

Into my cup of life have ever flown 
From the remembrance of the moments sped 

With those whom I hold dear ; and joys then known 
6n solitary hours their social light have thrown. 

And therefore are they, in my inmost heart. 

As the deep waters of a hidden well ; 
Whose living freshness have a power to impart 

Far more than e'en the poet's page can tell 
Of pure enjoyment inexhaustible. 

Valued beyond old ocean's rarest gem ; 
Nor, while I feel my grateful bosom swell 

With feelings they confer, can I condemn 
Myself, for having thus in song recorded them I 

N 



130 



STANZAS, 



TO 1» AFFECTIONATE AND PIOUS PAREIfT, ON THE DEATH OF HEB 
CHILD. 



When good old Jacob mourn'd his child. 

How bitter were the tears he shed ! 
With garments rent, in anguish wild. 

He sorrow'd for his Joseph dead. 
He mourn'd his hopes for ever fled. 

And said that, even to his tomb. 
Grief should bow down his aged head 

For Joseph's melancholy doom. 

But hark! what sounds salute my ear? 

Sorrow inspires the artless lay ; 
A pious parent's frequent tear 

Laments her Joseph snatch'd away. 
But, though to deepest grief a prey, 

She humbly strives to kiss the rod ; 
She owns the debt that all must pay, 

Nor doubts the justice of her God. 



ISl 

But let us not too harshly blame 

The good old patriarch's anguish sore ; 
Well might his much-lov'd Joseph claim 

A father's sorrow when no more : 
Nor can the proud, the boasted lore 

Of this refin'd, enlighten'd age, 
A mother's lost delights restore, 

A mother's natural grief assuage. 



What makes the difference ? Grace alone 5 

'Tis grace divine, with cheering ray. 
Hath made a brighter prospect known — 

Hath usher'd in a happier day. 
The patriarch trod his weary way. 

No gospel sun had dawn'd on him ; 
'Twas his at twilight's hour to stray, 

When truth's clear lamp shone pale and dim. 



Yet even then the still small voice, 

Assuming a prophetic tone, 
Oft bade his trembling heart rejoice 

In scenes unveil'd to faith alone, 
By faith's pure influence made his own 

With humble gratitude inspir'd. 
He blest the glorious light that shone 

On Judah, and in hope expir'd. 



1S2 

The patriarch's hope, the prophet's theme, 

The pious Christian's heart-felt joy 
At length is come ; its matchless scheme 

Hath been proclaim'd from heaven on high; 
Light, life, and immortality 

Now shine reveal 'd ; beyond the tomb 
The Christian's vision can descry 

A blissful rest, a tranquil home. 



And wilt thou. Christian ! then lament 

(Like him whose every hope is fled,) 
When life's short feverish day is spent. 

Those whom it numbers with the dead ^ 
No, rather lift thy weary head, - 

Raise from the dust thy tearful eye. 
When nature's pious drops are shed, 

Let faith her cordial cup apply. 



For thee, who pour'stthy plaintive straim 

Lament no more thy Joseph's flight 
From scenes of sorrow, sin, and pain. 

To realms of endless, pure delight* 
At times shall burst upon thy sight 

A seraph form, thy griefs to calm. 
Scattering, from pinions dazzling bright, 

Kind drops of Gilead's healing balm. 



133 

Hovering unseen thy steps around 

Its soothing voice shall greet thy ear ; 
Shall tell what blessings still abound. 

And gently chide the falling tear. 
A husband's sympathy sincere 

In grief's dark hour some stay may prove ; 
One hopeful pledge is left to cheer 

Thy closing days with filial love. 



Thine too that gentle soothing aid 

Which friendship yields the wounded heart 
Does pining grief thy breast invade ? 

Let willing friendship bear her part. 
Do pensive tears unbidden start. 

As memory brings the past to view ? 
Let faithful friendship's blameless art 

Share every pang, and heal it too. 



JBut friendship soon or late must prove, 

On earth at least, a fleeting dream ; 
Both conjugal and filial love 

May shed a bright but transient beam. 
When these decay, and life would seem 

A barren waste, a gloomy void ; 
Then, what a source of bliss supreme 

Is found in talents well employ'd. 
n2 



134 

Thine is that bliss : then oh ! what cause 

For heart-felt gratitude is thine ; 
In death's dread hour the heart's applause 

Can yield a pleasure half divine. 
If at that hour unclouded shine 

That path which all the just have trod. 
The soul with rapture shall resign 

Its hopes and fears, and fly to God. 



irs 



^* THE HEAVEN WAS CLOUDLESS/^ 



The heaven was cloudless, the ocean was calm. 

For the breeze which blew o'er it scarce ruffled its 
breast ; 

Not a sight, not a sound, that might waken alarm. 
Could the eye or the ear of the wanderer molest. 

As I roam'd on the beach, to my memory rose 
The bliss I had tasted in moments gone by ; 

When my soul could rejoice in a scene of repose, 
And my spirit exult in an unclouded sky. 

I thought of the past ; and while thinking, thy name 
Came uncall'd to my lips, but no language it found ; 

Yet my heart felt how dear, and how hallow'd its claim, 
I could think, though my tongue dar'd not utter a 
sound. 

I did not forget how with thee I had paced 

On the shore I now trod, and how pleasant it seem'd ; 

How my eye then sought thine, and how gladly it traced 
Every glance of aifection which mildly it beam'd. 



136 

The beginning and end of our loves were before me ; 

And both touched a chord of the tenderest tone ; 
For thy spirit, then near, shed its influence o'er me. 

And told me that still thou wert truly my own. 



Yes, I thought at the moment, (how dear was the 
thought !) 
That there still was a union which death could not 
break ; 
And if with some sorrow the feeling was fraught, 
Yet even that sorrow was sweet for thy sake. 

Thus musing on thee, every object around 

Seem'd to borrow thy sweetness to make itself dear ; 

Each murmuring wave reach'd the shore with a sound 
As soft as the tone of thy voice to my ear. 



The lights and the shades on the surface of ocean, 
Seem'd to give back the glimpses of feeling and grac^l 

Which once so expressively told each emotion 
Of thy innocent heart, as I gaz'd on thy face. 



And, when I look'd up to the beautiful sky, 
So cloudless and calm ; oh ! it harmoniz'd well 

With the gentle expression which spoke in that eye^ 
Ere the curtain pf death on its loveliness fell ! 



137 

How proud is the prize which thj virtues have won. 
When their memory alone is so precious to me. 

That this world cannot give, what my soul would not 
shun, 
If it tore from mj breast the remembrance of thee! 



1S8 



VERSES 



TO A YOTJUG FBIENB. 



If, long ere this, no lay of mine 
Has been to thee devoted ; 

'Tis not because such worth as thine 
Has idlj pass'd unnoted. 

To charms more transient, tribute due 
I oft have cheaply chaunted ; 

And auburn locks, or eyes of blue. 
Have gain'd what folly wanted ! 

To beauty's song and beauty's smile 
My muse has homage render'd. 

And unto many a trifling wile 
Some trifling meed has tender'd. 

In praising such, my short-liv'd song 

Didallthatldesir'dit: 
It liv'd, perchance, about as long 

As that which first iuspir'd it 



139 

Not such, my friend, the song for thee.; 

Did I that lyre inherit. 
Which Cowper woke, its strings should be 

Responsive to thy merit. 

Still, such a wreath as 1 can twine. 
Thy virtues well have won thee ; 

Could I an apter one assign, 
I'd gladly place it on thee. 

Thou art not one whose path has been 
Strew'd but with summer roses; 

With sky above of blue serene, 
Which never storm discloses. 

Who tread such paths, with graceful glee, 
May cull what clusters round them : 

And, fading, may to memory be 

Just like the flowers that crown'd them. 

But, in the bloom of youth to tread 

As through a desert dreary ; 
With much to harass heart and head. 

And many a care to weary ; 

With much to jar each mood of joy. 
With much to tease and try thee. 

With many a duty to employ 
Each hour that passes by thee ; 



140 

So circumstanc'd, to cultivate 
Each flower that leisure graces ; 

And thus to find, in spite of fate, 
Sweet spots in desert places : 

To do all this, yet still to be, 

In social life, a woman, 
From half thy sex's follies free, 

Is merit far from common. 

Nor think this flattery ! I've been taught 

One maxim worth receiving. 
Which every passing day has brought 

Fresh motive for believing : 

*rhat flattery no excuse can find ! 

'Tis loath'd as soon as tasted. 
When offer'd to a well -taught mind; 

And on a fool 'tis wasted ! 



141 



STANZAS, 



COMPOSED WHILE "WAIKING OX THE -WARKEir HIIL* EARIT ON" A 
summer's MOBNIJTG. 



Lonely and low is thy dwelling-place now. 
On which the bright sunbeams are dawning ; 
But oh ! I remember the moments when thou 
Wast as blythe as the breeze of the morning. 

Silent and sad is the place of thy rest. 
Where thou sleep'st the last slumber decreed thee ; 
But well I remember, when warm was that breast. 
How few in gay mirth could exceed thee. 

* The Warren Hill is an eminence near Woodbridge, com- 
manding' a view of the river Deb en and part of the town of 
Woodbridge. It is perhaps one of the pleasantest walks in the 
vicinity: just below it is the Barrack burial-ground, in which a 
solitary tomb-stone is erected to the memory of W. H. Finnic, 
Esq. several years Barrack-Master of the Garrison at that place : 
a man no less respected for the uprightness of his character, than 
beloved for his social qualifications. 

O 



U2 

Yef, rest in thy mansion ! sleep quietly on : 
There was nought in that mirth which should cost thee. 
Or those who best knew thee, one sigh now thouVt gone ; 
Were it not that too early we lost thee. 

Thine was not the laughter which leaves us more sad ; 
Unnatural, unheeded, unglowing; 
'Twas a gush of enjoyment, which seem'd to be glad 
To get loose from a heart overflowing. 

But 'tis not the memory of moments of mirth. 
Which thy claim to remembrance now gives thee ; 
Their light is obscur'd by the grave ! but thy worth. 
In spite of the grave, still outlives thee. 

Thy sterling integrity, candour, and sense. 
Thy benevolence, frank and warm-hearted, 
Which sham'd the professions of empty pretence ; 
These live, though thy life has departed. 

And long shall they lend to thy lonely tomb, 

A glory like that the sun grants us; 

When the clouds he hath set in have lost all their gloom, 

x\nd a beautiful twilight enchants us. 

8th Mo. 4th, 18ir. 



143 



WRITTEN IN AN ALBUM. 



Like one who, fruitlessly perchancej 

Engraves his name upon a tree. 
In hopes to win a casual glance, 

And woo remembrance still, when he 
A distant wanderer may be : 

Thus have I claim'd a page of thine : 
Be it but reckoned worthy thee. 

And I shall proudly own it mine. 

1st Mo. 5th, 1818. 



144 



THE ADIEU, 



TO A FBIESfD LEAVING StTFPOLK. 



Farewell I and oh ! if aught of grief 
Shall mingle with thy last adieu, 

May it at least aftbrd relief, 

That those thou leav'st partake it too. 

Though weeks have pass'd uncounted by, 
Thj presence has not taught us yet 

To feel, with thee, satiety ; 

Or part with thee, without regret. 

But, in exact proportion to 

Our past enjoyments — present pain, 
Arises, while we bid adieu ! 

The hope that we shall meet again. 

Is it not meet it thus should be. 

That light and shade should mingle thus; 
When we must lose a friend like thee. 

And thou, awhile, must part from us ? 



145 

Yes, surely. — Nor could friendship ask 
A stronger test, her power to tell. 

Than, that it should be felt a task, 
A painful one, to say farewell ! 

Yet not a painful one alone ; 

For our regrets a pledge shall give. 
That days and hours, too swiftly flown. 

In cherish'd memory long shall live. 

Then let our parting hour befit 

The happy ones that we have spent; 

Though grave, let grief not darken it 
With aught like thankless discontent. 

'Tis something to have shar'd so much 
Of joy, that Friends alone can know: 

'Tis more to feel we part as such. 
Aye ! render'd more than ever so. 

But oh ! it is more soothing still. 
To feel a fond hope, when we sever, 

Absence can not affection chill. 
And we may meet more dear than ever 



o 2 



146 

THE 

MOTHER'S LAMENT. 



Pale and cold is the cheek that my kisses oft press'd. 
And quench'd is the beam of that bright- sparkling 
eye: 

For the soul, which its innocent glances confess'd. 
Has flown to its God and its Father on high. 

No more shall the accents, whose tones were more dear 
Than the sweetest of sounds even music can make. 

In notes full of tenderness fall on my ear; 

If I catch them in dreams, all is still when I wake ! 

No more the gay smiles that those features display'd, 
Shall transiently light up their own mirth in mine : 

Yet, though these, and much more, be now cover'd in 
shade, 
I must not, I cannot, and dare not repine. 

However enchantingly flattering and fair. 

Were the hopes, that for thee, I had ventur'd to build, 
Can a frail, finite mortal presume to declare 

That the future those hopes would have ever fulfilPdr 



147 

In the world thou hast left, there is much to allure 
The most innocent spirit from virtue and peace. 

Hadst thou liv'd, would thy own have been equally 
pure, 
And guileless, and happy, in age's increase .^ 

Temptation, or sooner, or later, had found thee : 
Perhaps had seduc'd thee from pathways of light: 

Till the dark clouds of vice, gath'ring gloomily round, 
thee. 
Had enwrapt thee for ever in horror and night. 

But now, in the loveliest bloom of the soul. 

While thy heart yet was pangless, and true, and un- 
stain'd ; 

Ere the world one vain wish by its witcheries stole. 
What it could not confer, thou for ever hast gain'd ! 

Like a dew drop, kiss'd off by the sun's morning beam^ 
A brief, but a beauteous existence was given ; 

Thy soul seem'd to come down to earth, in a dream^ 
And only to wake when ascended to heaven ! 



148 



STANZAS 



DEATH OF THE PRINCESS CHARLOTTE. 



Farewell to the hopes which the nation has cherish'd t 
To the visions of glory, now vanish'd in gloom ! 

To the prospects that dawn'd, and for ever have perish'd! 
To the feelings we foster'd, now chilPd in their bloom! 

The oak of our fathers, which once flourish'd proudly. 
And struck deep its roots, and its branches spread 
wide; 
Which listen'd unmov'd, when the tempest roar'd 
loudly. 
No longer exults in its prosperous pride. 

Its stem, struck by lightning, has long since been 
shiver'd ; 

All its earliest boughs of their beauty been shorn ; 
And fate's stern decree has to death now delivered 

The last sapling shoot which wav'd bright in the morn! 



149 

Not with lingering decline, or by gentle gradation, 
Did its loveliness wither — its leaves drop away ; 

At sunset it seem'd all secure in its station. 
And was torn from its stem ere the dawning of day ! 

But, adieu to such images ! — Ours is a sorrow. 
Which can find in no image of fiction relief; 

And the depth of its anguish forbids us to borrow 

From the bard's brightest fancies a balm for our grief. 

No! Charlotte, we need not be taught to deplore thee 
By the poet's warm page, or the orator's arts ; 

For the high hopes of thousands, who now sorrow o'er 
thee; 
Had long turn'd to Thee in their innermost hearts. 

There are those who, at seasons, with fond expectation. 
To the future look'd forward ; and fancied, in thee 

Might yet be fulfill'd every wish of a nation. 
Both generous and faithful, both loyal and free. 

And well does each bosom's high throbbing emotion 
Refute the base cant of the sycophant slave, 

Who would brand, as deficient in loyal devotion. 
An empire which mourns o'er thy premature grave. 

But it is not as Britons and patriots only 

That we publicly grieve : other feelings must glow 

In the hearts of the lovely, the lov'd, and the lonely; 
And thoughts the most tender our nature can know. 



150 

Oh ! many a mother, but yesterday folding 
Her lov'd infant close to her bosom with joy, 

Believ'd with delight, her own cherub beholding. 
That such would, ere long, be thy blissful employ. 

But noiv ! while the drops in her gentle eye glisten, 
From the babe on her breast, for one moment forgot, 

She looks silently up, with reluctance to listen 
To the faltering tongue which relates thy sad lot. 

Farewell ! and when History, telling thy story 
To Britons unborn, shall thy destiny speak. 

They may turn from the record of grandeur and glory. 
With a sigh on each heart, and a tear on each cheek. 

And those of this age, while on earth they outlive thee. 
Shall, deeply regretting thy too early doom. 

With feelings of anguish that pure homage give thee. 
Which retires from the Throne, to repose on the 
Tomb ! 



151 



SLEEP. 



What is it that stills the sigh of sorrow. 

And forbids her tears to flow ?— 
That allows the desolate -hearted to borrow 

A transient relief from wo ? 
It is thou, sweet Sleep ! then listen to me ! 
Be it but in thy dreams, while I sing of thee. 

Could I embody the thoughts which now 

Pass my soul's living tablet over, 
No being more lovely and fair than thou. 

Before mortal eye could hover : 
Not deathly and pale, like a spectre stealing 
On the slumb'rer, whose eyes thy power is sealing ;- 

But a form full of beauty, of joy, and grace. 

And features with kindness bright. 
Such as Raphael would love to trace ; 

A creature of glory and light. 
With a silvery cloud, to chasten each hue 
Too radiant else, should arise to view. 



152 

With angel eye, and a brow that never 
Had been other than meekly calm ; 

And lips which a soft smile seems to sever, 
Such as shed round a soothing charm ; 

With a step more light than zephyr's sigh. 

Would I paint thee, in loveliness passing by. 



Such could I fancy thee, roving far 

Beneath the pale moon's glistening beam ; 

Or the fainter light of heaven's fairest star. 
Attended by many a shadowy dream : 

Those purer visions, in mercy given 

To slumbering souls, when they dream of heaven ! 



By an infant's couch I behold thee sit. 
Its widow'd parent's earthly treasure ; 

And over its features, like sunshine, flit 

Bright gleams of half-unconscious pleasure : 

Smiles of a spirit that knows no fears. 

Such as belong not to after years. 

And then to its parent, disconsolate-hearted 
But for that cherub, thou turn'st ; and lo ! 

The undried tear, which perhaps had started 
Before those eye-lids could slumber know. 

Like a dew-drop at morn is exhal'd, in the union 

Of souls, still mingling in blest communion. 



153 

And last, to the bed of some dying saint, 
I can fancy thee gliding with noiseless foot. 

Who, worn out with anguish, and ready to faint. 
Ere thou drew'st nigh, was patiently mute : 

Thou comest ; and straight on his closing lids 

Falls a spell, that protracted pain forbids. 

As soon as his eyes soft slumbers seal. 
He forgets all the anguish he felt before ; 

And the glory his faded features reveal 
Tells whither his thoughts exulting soar i 

He seems to have cast off his mortal array, 

" And walks in the light of a sunless day." 

Must he awake upon earth, to prove . 

The vision but cheated ? O ! rather say. 
That He, who is goodness, compassion, and love, 

Permits him in slumber to pass away ; 
And all in that dream he could feel or see. 
Is his through a blissful eternity ! 



154 



STANZAS 



WILLIAM ROSCOE, ESQ, 



When first, like a child building houses with cards, 

I mimick'd the labours of loftier bards ; 

Though the fabrics 1 built felt each breath that came 

near. 
Thy smiles taught me hope, and thj praise banish'd fear* 

Thou didst not reprove with an Aristarch's pride : 
Or unfeelingly chill, or uncandidly chide ; 
It was not in thy nature with scorn to regard 
The fresh-breathing hopes of an untutor'd bard. 

Thou knew'st, whether Fame crown'd his efforts or not, 
That his love of the Muse might enliven his lot ; 
That poesy acts like a magical charm ; 
And in seasons of care it can silently calm. 



155 

It miglit win him no wealth, yet its treasure would add 
To the store of his mind, what would make the heart 

glad ; 
That the feelings and thoughts its enchantments can 

cherish. 
Are too precious, too pure, and too lofty to perish. 

I'hen accept of my thanks ! they are justly thy due ; 

And forgive me for seeking once more to renew 

A claim pronounc'd sacred, with being begun. 

By the Father once own'd, and bequeath'd to the Son. 



1S6 



A DREAM. 



Thou art not one of the living now | 

And jet a form appears 
At times before me, such as thou 

In dajs of former years : 
It rises, to mj spirit's sight. 
In thoughts by day, in dreams by night. 

Nor can I choose, but fondly bless 

A shade, if shade it be. 
Which, with such soft expressiveness. 

Recalls one thought of thee : 
I own it, in itself, ideal ; 
Its influence o'er my heart is real. 

I grant that dreams are idle things. 

Yet have I known a few, 
To which my faithful memory clings ; 

They seem'd so sweet and true. 
That, let who will the fault condemn^ 
It was a grief to wake from them. 



157 

One such came lately in the hours 

To nightly slumber due ; 
It pictur'd forth no fairy bowers 

To fancy's raptur'd view ; 
It had not much of marvels strange. 
Nor aught of wild and frequent change 



But all seem'd real. — Aye ! as much. 

As now the page I trace 
Is palpable to sight and touch ; 

Then how could doubt have place ? 
Yet was I not from doubt exem^- ., 
But ask'd myself if still I dreamt. 

I felt I did ; but, spite of this. 
Even thus in dreams to meet. 

Had much, too much of dearest bliss^ 
Though not enough to cheat : 

I knew the vision might not stay, 

And yet I bless'd its transient sway- 



But oh, thy look ! — It was not one. 

That earthly features wear ; 
Nor was it aught to fear or shun. 

As fancied spectres are : 
'Twas gentle, pure, and passionless. 
Yet full of heavenly tenderness. 
P 2 



Ids 

One thing was strange. — It seemM to me 

We were not long alone ; 
But many more were circling thee, 

Whom thou on earth hadst known ; 
Who seem'd as greeting thy return 
From some unknown, remote sojourn. 

To them thou wast, as others be 

Whom on this earth we love ; 
I marvell'd much they could not see 

Thou earnest from above : 
And often to myself 1 said, 
" How can they thus approach the dead ?'* 

But though all these, with fondness warm. 
Said, " Welcome !" o'er and o'er, 

Still that expressive shade, or form. 
Was silent, as before I 

And yet its stillness never brought 

To them one hesitating thought. 

/only knew thee as thou wert^ 

A being not of earth ! 
Yet had I not the power to exert 

My voice to check their mirth ; 
For blameless mirth was theirs, to see 
Once more, a friend belov'd as thee. 



159 

And so apart from all I stood, 
Till tears, though not of griefl 

Aftbrded, to that speechless mood, 
A soothing, calm relief: 

And, happier than if speech were free^ 

I stood, and watch'd thee silently ! 



r watch'd thee silently, and while 
I mus'd on days gone by. 

Thou gav'st me one celestial smile- 
One look that cannot die. 

It was a moment worthy years ! 

I woke, and found myself in tears. 



In tears ; but not such tears as fall 

From sorrow's waking eye ; 
Nor such as flow at feeling's call 

From woman's. — Mine are dry ; 
Save when they melt with soft'ning bliss 
And love, in some such dream as this T 



160 



STANZAS, 

OCCASIONED BY THE DEATH OF 

H — - A . 



Would I deck truth in fiction's graceful dress, 

Easy it were for votary of the Nine 

To find, in fair creation's loveliness. 

Apt emblems of a life and death like thine. 

The first, a streamlet scattering, though unseen. 
Its silent virtues, well might represent ; 
The last, a light cloud, lovely and serene, 
View'd on the verge of a bright firmament. 

But these are poor comparisons.— The stream 
One summer's radiance may for ever dry; 
The cloud, so beauteous in the sunset's gleam, 
May be forgotten in night's starless sky. 

Not so with thee ; thy memory long shall live. 
Through starless nights, through dark and distant days 5 
Thy virtues ! 'twere more fitting they should give 
Impulse to imitation, than to praise* 



161 

Indeed, they were not thine J That gentleness. 
That patient resignation — kindness — ^truth ; 

That candour — sympathy with all distress. 
And quiet cheerfulness, surpassing youth; — 

That self-forgetfulness — unbounded love : 

These were not thine, though thou wert lov'd for them ; 
Thou knew'st they were but lent thee from above. 

This knowledge was their crown and diadem ! 

Thou art no longer of this world: and even 

While yet its path of flowers and thorns was trod 

By thee, thy " conversation was in heaven," 
Where thy pure spirit now beholds its Grod ! 

2cl Mo. 5tb, 1820. 



162 



TO 

A FATHER, 

0n ttft ©cats of m onip ^Sfftr, 

A FSOUIglJfG YOUTH OF EIOHT££X. 



The hand of the Highest, who woundeth, can heal 
Every pang that the keenest affliction may feel : 
And though misery's cup may be filPd to its brim. 
It can be endur'd, through obedience to Him. 

I grant that the stroke which has laid thy hopes low 
Is perhaps the severest that nature can know ; 
If hope but deferred, may cause sickness of heart. 
How dreadful to see it for ever depart! 

Yet, even in this hour of unutterable grief. 

Religion and reason may whisper relief. 

If the sufferer confide in the goodness of God, 

Who withholds not his staff, when he strikes with his rod. 



I6S 

Though the worth of the dead may at present but be 
A source of additional anguish to thee ; 
Yet a period may come, when that worth shall awake 
A soul -soothing sadness, belov'd for his sake. 

Then arise ! like the monarch of Judah, repair 
To the house of the Lord^ humbly worship him there ; 
And may love of thy lost-one instruct thee to learn 
That thou may'st go to him, though he cannot return. 



161. 



VERSES, 

BKSPECTPrtiY ASB APFECTIONATEIY IKSCRIBEI) TO A PHOIES^ION AI. 
FHIEXC. 



Thou art not one of those, who, by retreating 

Far from the tumult of life's busy throng, 
Have foster'd feelings, fair ; but, oh how fleeting I — 

Fraught with delight to every child of song : 
Yet should I do thee, sure, ungrateful wrong. 

Did I not feel a poet's warmest pride 
In styling thee my patron : since among 

The few, whose partial smiles have hope supplied. 
Thine, dear for friendship's sake, have never been de- 
nied. 

Yet when at first I met thee, (pardon me, 

I did not know thee then as now I do,) 
I scarcely dar'd to hope that there might be 

One rallying point between us : well I knew. 
By common fame, thy life to honour true ; 

Integrity unquestion'd, warm good-v/ill; 
And yet I could but think how very few 

Can mingle with the world, and cherish still 
That genuine love of song which worldly feelings chill. 



165 

The panting pilgrim, who on Arab's sands 

Plods wearily along the sterile scene. 
Where far and wide a dreary waste expands ; 

When on his eye a glimpse of living green 
Glances at distance, with what alter'd mien 

He journeys on: hope in his bosom glows. 
And fancy's eye beholds the bickering sheen 

Of the fair streamlet, as it freshly flows. 
Beside whose brink ere long he gladly shall repose.: 

And such the feeling was, by thee excited. 

When first this volume ask'd thy friendly aid : 
All I could ask was given, though unrequited. 

Except as far as feeble thanks repaid 
Thy generous efforts ; still more grateful made 

By that unpatronising grace, which cast 
O'er kindnesses conferr'd a partial shade 

As wishing them to be unheeded past; 
Despite that delicate veil their memory long shall last. 

To thee, and one like thee, whose honour'd name 

Could not be honour'd more by verse of mine. 
These fleeting pages owe their right to claim 

Existence; and if here and there a line. 
Worthy a votary of the tuneful Nine, 

Be found to Nature's better feelings true ; 
Or in my verses aught of genius shine. 

Or passion's genuine tone, or fancy's hue ; 
Much of their meed of praise is justly due to you. 



166 

Enough of this : — 'tis time such theme should end, 

Yet more might be forgiven : could he say less, 
Who in a stranger finds a steadfast friend ? 

No, surely not ; the warm heart will express 
What generous bosoms easily may guess 

Is glowing in it : it will entertain 
Wishes most ardent for the happiness 

Of those who've foster'd it : nor can refrain 
E'en when expression gives a sense of transient pain. 

One of the purest blessings life can give. 

Is felt by those, who, ere its final close. 
Have given decided proof they did not live 

For themselves only : this the parent knows. 
Who, ere he sink to Nature's last repose. 

Sees round him those who owe their all to him; 
While the warm smile that in each visage glows 

Lends buoyant vigour to the languid limb, 
And keeps the cup of joy still mantling to its brim. 

Nor less his pure delight, though far more rare, 

Who lonely, not unlov'd ; — ^by ties unbound. 
Except by choice impos'd, and free as air. 

Attaches to him those whose hearts have found 
Much in the world to inflict that rankling wound 

Which disappointment deals. Oh ! does not he, 
(If ever bard his benefactor crown'd,) 

Deserve that round his brows entwin'd should be 
A wreath more deathless far than I have woven thee ? 



16' 



\ 



NOTE. 

In reference to the last stanza, page 165. 

The remark made in one of the preceding verses, that these 
pages owe their existence to the party addressed, was perfectly 
true, as respected the volume in which the poem was first 
published ; and is, in great measure, appropriate to this : for 
had not the former been printed, the present would not have 
been attempted. I cannot conclude this note without applying 
to my " professional friend," one of the most expressive tri- 
butes ever paid by an Author to a Patron: "Sir," said Dr. 
Johnson, speaking of one by whom he had been early encou- 
raged, " he praised me at a time when praise was valuable to 
me." 



m 



TO MARY; 



0CCA9T0NED BY HER HAVING EN&BATEX ON A SBAL TBE Vp^DS 
'* F0B6ET ME NOT.*' 



Forget thee, Mary ! — no, not jet; 
Too pleasing is tlie pensive debt 

Which memory owes to thee ; 
Not out of mind, though out of sight ; 
While retrospection claims her right. 
And friendship can afford delight. 

From ail such fears be free. 

For whom would memory's magic art 
Wish to enshrine within the heart ? 

Oh, would it not be one 
Simple, ingenuous, modest, meek; 
Whose praise we scarcely dare to speak. 
So much her eye, and changing cheek. 

Each plaudit seems to slum ? 



169 

Wliose gentle manners, void of art. 
Can cheer and charm that wounded heart 

Which beauty could not bow : 
Such live in memory's ear and eye, 
Endear'd by many a tender tie. 
And though remote, are ever nigh, 

And such, dear friend, art thou. 

Yet, lovely as thou art, not thine 
The praise alone : for this one line 

I know thou'lt not reprove me ; 
Young as thou art, thou know'st from whence 
Thy brightest charms of soul and sense ; 
Be He who gave them, their defence. 

And all who know must love, thee. 



^-2 



170 



SONNET 



CHARLOTTE M- 



Thou art bul in life's morning, and as yet 

The world looks witchingly : its fruits and flowers- 
Are fair and fragrant, and its beauteous bowers 

Seem haunts of happiness, before thee set. 

All lovely as a landscape freshly wet 
With dew, or bright with sunshine after showers; 
Where pleasure dwells, and Flora's magic powers 

Woo thee to pluck joy's peerless coronet. 
Thus be it ever ; would st thou have it so. 

Preserve thy present openness of heart ; 

Cherish those generous feelings which now start 
At base dissimulation, and that glow 

Of native love for ties which home endears, 

Vnd thou wilt find the world no vale of tears. 



171 



«ALL IS VANITY." 



Oh ! what can be more frail 
Than all this world can grant us 

Why should its power avail 
So often to enchant us ? 

In vain the chase, when won. 
Declares our hopes defeated ; 

Lur'd by fresh objects on. 

We cherish what has cheated ! 

In childhood, any toy 

For one short hour amuses; 

And all its store of joy 
With its new lustre loses. 

The boy keeps up the game. 
Just as the child began it ; 

For boyhood's joyous flame 
Needs novelty to fan it. 



112 

The youth, when beauty's eye 
First wakes the pulse of pleasure. 

Thinks, with a pensive sigh, 
That he has found life's treasure. 

How oft the smile he woo'd. 
Proud beauty has denied him. 

While, in capricious mood. 
It beam'd on all beside him. 

And oh ! how many an one 

Has gain'd, and fondly nurs'd it ; 

Then, by that smile undone. 
With bitterness has curs'd it. 

Existence further scan. 

In all its various stages ; 
View it in ripen'd man. 

In hoary -headed sages. 

What pleasure can it give. 
Except it stoop to borrow ; 

And lead us on to live 

On bliss to be — ^to-morrow? 

If rapture's brightest hour 
Be soon by sorrow shaded ; 

If pleasure's fairest flower 
Scarce bloom before 'tis faded : 



173 

If proud ambition's steeps 
But dazzle to deceive us ; 

If vales, where soft love sleeps, 
Allure, then lonely leave us : 

If wealth, with all its toys. 
Shrink at death's stern ordeal ; 

If fancy's boasted joys 
Be, like herself, unreal : 

What can this world bestow 
That should enchain us to it ? 

Or compensate the wo 
All bear, who journey through it ? 

O, man ! if to this earth 
Thy heart be wedded, only ; 

Each hope it can give birth 
Will leave thee doubly lonely : 

And, when that hope is gone, 
Thou 'It find, by all forsaken. 

Thy spirit lean'd upon 

A reed, by each wind shake ji ! 



174 



A FRIEND, 

ON HER BIRTH-DAY, 1818. 



Once more, my gentle friend ! has time's swift flight 

(Suspended never) reach'd thy natal day; 
And that pure friendship which first bade me plight 

My promise to devote to it a lay. 
Shall be fulfilPd : what, though perchance it may 

Bear token of the hour that gives it birth, 
Yet wilt thou not its sober tone gainsay ; 

For thou hast sojourn'd long enough on earth. 
Young as thou art, to know the emptiness of mirth. 

I mean that mirth, which, flashing but to fade, 

ExhiPrates not, but soon exhausts the mind ; 
And, transiently delighting, leaves a shade 

Of self-engender'd dreariness behind. 
With such my clouded spirit oft has pin'd ; 

Until, disgusted with the treacherous gleam, 
In which a moment's bliss it sought to find. 

Despair has almost tempted me to deem 
Joy an unreal shade— delight an empty dream. 



175 

Yet is there left us an alternative 

In chasten'd cheerfulness, deriving birth 
From other sources than the world can give, 

Far, far superior to its heartless mirth ; 
And though at times, w^hile we remain on earth, 

Clouds may obscure this " sunshine of the breast," 
Those who have truly known and priz'd its worth 

Will own with gratitude, in hours deprest. 
Its memory boasts that charm left by a blameless guest. 

Something of this, dear friend, have we not tasted 

In hours gone by ? Then, since those hours, to me 
Have still a living charm, by time unwasted. 

Proving that they were never born to be 
Enjoy 'd, and then forgotten ; unto thee 

O may they seem, as in my heart they are 
When fond imagination wanders free. 

Like a bright beacon, or a cloudless star 
Flinging o'er ocean's waves its lovely light afar. 

This is thy birth-day ! and for Friendship's sake. 

Even in this gloomiest season of the year. 
Feelings as warm as Spring could ever wake 

Have chronicled, and bid me hold it dear. 
The heart has in itself a hemisphere 

That knows not change of season, day or night ; 
For still when thoughts of those we love are near. 

Their cherish'd forms arise before our sight, 
And o'er the spirit shed fresh sunshine and delight. 



176 

Nature, who wore when few months since we met 

Her summer garb, a different dress displays; 
Your garden walks may now be moss*d and wet: 

The jas'mine's star-like bloom, which in the rays 
Of the bright moon seem'd lovely to my gaze, 

Has faded now ; and the green leaves that grew 
So lightly on the acacia's topmost sprays. 

Have lost, ere this, their glossy verdant hue. 
Shading no more the path their reliques soon must strew. 

Is there naught left then, loveliness to lend 

Unto the spot my memory loves to trace ? 
Should I now find, were I to come and spend 

A day with you, no beauty left to grace 
What seem'd of quiet joy the dwelling-place? 

Oh, yes ! believe me, much as I admir'd 
Those charms which change of seasons can efface, 

It was not such alone, when home retir'd. 
That memory cherish'd most, or most the muse inspired. 

When nature sheds her leafy loveliness. 

She does not die : her vital principle 
But seeks awhile its innermost recess, 

And there securely finds a citadel 
Which even winter owns impregnable ; 

The sap retreating downward to the root. 
Is still alive, as spring shall shortly tell, 

By swelling buds, whence blossoms soon will shoot. 
Dispensing fragrance round, and pledge of future fruit. 



177 

And thus our best aifections, those which bind 

Heart unto heart by friendship's purest tie. 
Have an internal life, and are enshrin'd 

Too deeply in our bosoms soon to die. 
Spring's opening bloom, and summer's azure sky 

Might borrow from them beauties not their own ; 
But when November winds are loud and high. 

And nature's dirge assumes its deepest tone, 
The joy of social hours in its full charm is known. 

For as the sap, whose quickening influence 

Shall be in spring the birth of future flowers, 
Confin'd and concentrated, is from thence 

More full of life, than in those brighter hours 
When birds sang sweetly in their shady bowers. 

And all unclouded was heaven's vaulted dome ; 
Thus is it with the 7nind^s electric powers. 

Forbid by winter's frowning skies to roam, 
Their radiance is condens'd, their focus found at Home! 

Then stir the cheerful fire ! and let its light 

The rallying point of home-born pleasures be ; 
Where spirit-sparkling eyes, and smiles as bright, 

Their own fit emblem may delighted see ; 
And let the overflow of innocent glee 

Be like the exub'rance of the Nile, and bless 
The seeds of future joy's fertility ; 

That days, in years to come, may bear th' impress 
Of hours of blameless bliss and social happiness. 

R 



178 

Since such, dear friend ! is the delightful season"* 

When thou wast born, oh ! let it, as it ought. 
Be kept with due observance, for that reason ; 

Not lighted up with borrow'd splendour caught 
From outward themes, which time or chance may 
thwart : 
But be its zest those charms that have their flow 
Fresh from the source of feeling and of thought ; 
And full of all that pure and vivid glow 
Which speaks them born above, though spent on earth 
below. 



179 



THE SOLITARY TOMB. 



Not a leaf of the tree which stood near me was stirrM, 
Though a breath might have mov'd it so lightly ; 

Not a farewell note from a sweet singing bird. 
Bade adieu to the sun setting brightly. 

The sky was cloudless and calm, except 
In the west where the sun was descending ; 

And there the rich tints of the rainbow slept. 
As his beams with their beauty were blending. 

And the evening star, with its ray so clear. 

So tremulous, soft, and tender. 
Had lit up its lamp, and shot down from its sphere 

Its dewy, delightful splendour. 

And I stood, all alone, on that gentle hill. 

With a landscape so lovely before me ; 
And its spirit and tone, so serene and still 

Seem'd silently gathering o'er me. 



180 

Far off was the Deben, whose briny flood 

By its winding banks was sweeping ; 
And just at the foot of the hill where I stood. 

The dead in their damp graves were sleeping. 

How lonely and lovely their resting-place seem'd ! 

An enclosure which care could not enter : 
And how sweetly the grey lights of evening gleam'd, 

On the solitary tomb in its centre ! 

When at morn, or at eve, I have wander'd near. 

And in various lights have view'd it. 
With what differing forms, unto friendsliip dear. 

Has the magic of fancy endued it. 

Sometimes it has seem'd like a lonely sail, 

A white spot on the emerald billow ; 
Sometimes like a lamb, in a low grassy vale, 

Stretch'd in peace on its verdant pillow. 

But no image of gloom, or of care, or strife. 
Has it ever given birth to one minute ; 

For lamented in death, as beloved in life. 
Was he, who now slumbers within it. 

He was one who in youth on the stormy seas 

Was a far and a fearless ranger ; 
Who, borne on the billow, and blown by the breeze. 

Counted lightly of death or of danger. 



181 

Yet in this rude school had his heart still kept 
All the freshness of gentlest feeling ; 

Nor in woman's warm eje has a tear ever slept^ 
More of softness and kindness revealing. 

And here, when the bustle of youth was past. 
He liv'd, and he lov'd, and he died too ; 

Oh ! why was affection, which death could outlas^if 
A more lengthen'd enjoyment denied to? 

But here he slumbers! and many there are 
Who love that lone tomb, and revere it; 

And one far off, who, like eve's dewy star, 
Though at distance, in fancy dwells near it. 



r€ 



182 



SONNET 



A FRIESO, ON niS SECOKD MAKRIAOJ&- 



To Hymen's sliriiie, where once thy vows were paid. 

Thou hast been on pilgrimage again : and now 
Thy evening fire, whose fitful radiance play-d 

Often for us alone, lights up a brow, 
And eye, and cheek, which by its dancing rays 

Look lovelily ; and make the circle round 
One upon which thy gladden'd eye may gaze 

Untired, till thy heart own its wishes crown'd. 
May health, and home-born bliss, and calm content 

Long haunt the spot ! and still increasing love 
Of her, now own'd its brightest ornament. 

An ample source of purest pleasure prove. 
That you may both confess each hope fulfilPd, 
On which love prompted you again to build. 



183 



VERSES 



OX SEEIIfG IN AN ALBUM A SKETCH OF AST OLD GATEWAY. 



Relique of hoar antiquity ! 

With moss and weeds array'd, 
The debt I long have ow'd to thee 

May fitly now be paid ; 
When, in thy semblance here, I trace 
Each well-known, venerable grace. 

So livingly portrayed : 
For thou hast power to wake a throng 
Of thoughts and feelings, dormant long. 

Thou wast the earliest monument 

Of what, in former days. 
Had once been deem'd magnificent, 

Which met my boyish gaze. 
And first emotions, kindled then. 
Now seem to start to life again ; 

As thou, when morning's rays 
Are on thy time-worn forehead shed. 
And gild thy brow so garlanded. 

* The Verses were written as an accompaniment to the di'aw- 
ing : the Ruin itself was one familiar to me in very early life. 



184 

For, even in boyhood, I possess'd 

Untutor'd love for all 
Which since, by Scott, or Froissart dress'd, 

Wove fancy's sweetest thrall. 
Deride who may, I then could feel 
What wildest romance might reveal 

At fiction's fairy call : 
And thou, for many years hadst been 
The only ruin I had seen. 

And though thou wert a puny shred 

Of Grandeur's vestment hoary, 
Before me was not vainly spread 

The page of thy past glory. 
I of thy history nothing knew. 
But with thee rose to memory's view 

Fragments of ancient story. 
Which I, in boyish days, had ponder'd. 
To which again my fancy wander'd. 

Through such a gate as this, perchance. 

Thought I, once issued free. 
All I have read of in romance. 

And reading, half could see ; 
Robed priests, advancing one by one, 
And banners gleaming in the sun. 

With knights of chivalry : 
And then I almost seem'd to hear 
The trumpet's clangor thrilling near. 



185 

" 'Twas idlesse all :" such flights as please 

A castle-building boj. 
Whom nature early taught to seize 

(Far more than childish toy) 
Ideal bliss ; by thought created, 
Such as on marvels strange awaited. 

And gave romantic joy ; 
Who, even then was wont, alone. 
To dream adventures of his own. 

Such are gone by ! experience now 

Has fetter'd fancy's flight ; 
And years upon my pensive brow 

Inscrib'd, what time must write 
On heads that think, on hearts that feel. 
That all the bliss such dreams reveal 

Is grief, though passing bright : 
Yet not the less, now these are gone, 
I love to think how fair they shone. 

For oh ! the morning of the soul 
Has heavenly brightness in it ; 

And, as the mind's first mists unrol. 
Gives years in every minute ! 

Years of ideal joy ! Life's path. 

First trod, such dewy freshness hath, 
'Tis rapture to begin it : 

But soon, toasoon, the dew-drops dry, 

Or glisten but in sorrow's eye. 



186 

And if in mine they gather not, 

Nor such bj me be shed ; 
Like waters in a stony grot, 

Deep is their fountain head ! 
They, who in tears can find relief. 
Know little of the excess of grief 

With which some hearts have bled, 
When burning eyes, forbid to sleep. 
Have ach'd, because they could not weep. 

It boots but little ; smiles and tears. 

Even from beauty beaming. 
Must fade alike with fleeting years. 

Like phantoms from the dreaming ; 
But never can they be so bright. 
As when life's sweet and dawning light 

On both by turns was gleaming ; 
Unless it be, when, unforgot, 
We feel " they ivere, and they are not J- 



187 



<" THOU ART GONE TO THE LAND OF THE XEAIu*^ 



Thou art gone to the land of the leal, and the bell 

Is mournfully tolling thy funeral knell ; 

Within the dark coffin is pillow'd thy head. 

And without it the pall for a covering spread ; 

From the home which thy presence so long has endear'd. 

Where thy smiles were beloved, and thy worth was 

rever'd. 
To the last earthly home, where thy reliques shall rest. 
Thou art journeying in peace ! — Be thy memory blest I 
And blest it shall be : for thou dost not descend 
To the cold grave unhonour'd ; the grief of each friend. 
The sigh of the poor, and the sorrow of those 
Who have known thee the longest, attended thy close. 
Oh ! often before me thy image shall pass. 
Like a shadow reflected from memory's glass ; 
With thy time-silver'd locks, and those spirits, whose 

play 
Seem'd fresh from the fount of life's earliest day; 
And the vision, thus brought, to my bosom shall be 
Ever welcome, if bearing the semblance of thee ! 

2d mo. 6th, 1818. 



188 



THE SEA. 



I REMEMBER a time when existence was young. 
When the halo of hope round futurity hung, 
When I stoop'd not to commune with sorrow or strife. 
But enjoyment alone seem'd the business of life. 

The bright sun himself, in an unclouded sky. 
Exulted not more in his brightness than I ; 
And the clouds that his last rays of light lov'd to ^Id, 
Could not rival the castles my fancy would build. 

The loud-singing bird, and the blythe humming bee. 
Were not happier than I, in that season of glee ; 
Like the butterfly, flitting round spring's gayest bowers. 
Fly w^hither I would, I alighted on flowers. 

Yet then, even then, when my young spirit found 
Its own heaven within, and above, and around. 
There w as nothing more dear or delightful to me. 
Than to gaze on the glorious and beautiful sea. 

Oh ! I shall not forget, until memory depart. 
When first I beheld it, the glow^ of my heart ; 
The wonder, the awe, the delight that stole o'er me. 
When its billowy boundlessness open'd before me • 



189 

As I stood on its margin, or roam'd on its strand, 
I felt new ideas within me expand, 
Of glorj and grandeur, unknown till that hour. 
And my spirit was mute in the presence of Power ! 

But soon, as young boyhood is wont, I o'ercame 
The feeling of awe which first master'd my frame. 
And that wide world of waters appear'd in my view 
A scene of enjoyment unbounded and new. 

In the surf -beaten sands that encircPd it round. 
In the billow's retreat, and the breaker's rebound. 
In its white-drifted foam, and its dark -heaving green. 
Each moment I gaz'd some fresh beauty was seen. 

And thus, while I wander'd on ocean's bleak shore. 
And survey'd its vast surface, and heard its waves 

roar, 
I seem'd wrapt in a dream of romantic delight. 
And haunted by majesty, glory, and might I 

* % * * *. * 

-* * .-* ■» * 1^ 



So it was in the morning of life ! but no more 

Can thy grandeur, old Ocean ! such visions restore j 

With the freshness of youth those enchantments have 

flown. 
But a charm still survives that is proudly thy own. 



190 

It is thine to awaken that tenderest thrill 
Of pensive enjoyment, which time cannot chili ; 
"Which sun'ives even love, on its memory to livCj 
And is dearer by far than all rapture can give. 

It is not a feeling of gloom or distress. 
But something that language can never express ; 
'Tis the essence of joy, and the lux'ry of wo. 
The bliss of the blest, faintly imag'd below. 

For if ever to mortals sensations are given 

As pledges of purer ones hop'd for in heaven, 

They are those which arise, when, with humble devotion. 

We gaze upon thee, thou magnificent ocean. 

Though, while in these houses of clay we must dwell. 
We but faintly can guess, and imperfectly <ell 
What the feelings of fetterless spirits may be ; 
They are surely like those which are waken'd by thee. 

A sense of His greatness, whose might, and whose will 
'First gave thee existence, and governs thee still ; 
By the force of whose " Fiat" thy waters were made ! 
By the strength of whose arm thy proud billows are 
stay'd ! 

Nor less, when our vision thy vastness would scan. 
And our spirits would fain thy immensity span. 
Does thy empire, which spreads from equator to pole, 
Prove how feeble and finite is human control. 



191 

Yet, mixM with emotions that humble our pride, 
Are others to nature's best feelings allied ; 
To the wounded in spirit, the stricken in heart, 
Thj breezes and billows can solace impart. 

And this I have found, when, with spirits deprest, 
I have walk'd by thy side as thy waves sank to rest ; 
When the winds which had swept thee were softly 

subsiding. 
And where breakers had foam'd, rippling billows were 

gliding. 

Oh, thus ! have I thought, when the tempests that roll. 
And the clouds that o'ershadow and darken my soul, 
Have fulfilPd their commission, my sorrows may cease, 
And my thoughts, like thy waves, find a season of peace. 

Flow on then, thou type of eternity ! flow : 

In boyhood my heart in thy presence would glow ; 

For the strength of the happy, the might of the free, 
Seem'd spread like a garment of glory o'er thee." 

But more passionless, pensive, and pure is thy sway, 
Since dark clouds have shadow'd the noon of my day; 
Oh, then ! like the sun's setting beam on thy wave. 
May a ray from Hope's star shed its light on my grave ! 



192 



TO A PROFILE. 



X KNEW tliee not ! then wherefore gaze 
Upon thy silent shadow there. 

Which so imperfectly portrays 

The form thy features us'd to wear ? 

Yet have I often look'd at thee, 

As if those lips could speak to me. 

I knew thee not ! and thou couldst know. 
At best, but little more of one 

Whose pilgrimage on earth below 

Commenc'd, just ere thy own was done; 

For few and fleeting days were thine, 

To hope or fear for lot of mine. 

Yet few and fleeting as they were. 
Fancy and feeling picture this. 

They prompted many a fervent prayer. 
Witnessed, perchance, a parting kiss ; 

And might not kiss, and prayer, from thee. 

At such a period, profit me ? 



193 

Whether thej did, or not; I owe 
At least this tribute to thy worth ; 

Though little all I can bestow. 
Yet fond affection gives it birth ; 

And prompts me, as thy shade I view. 
To bless thee, whom I never knew ! 



s 2 



194 



TO A FRIEND. 



In thy profession thou hast many peers. 

Whose skill may equal thine : but few I know. 
Whom converse, manners, kindness, so endears 

To patients, in that most impatient wo 
Disease gives birth to. I would rather be 

(As who would not ?) a stranger to you all : 
But if I were by sad necessity 

CompelPd to seek for aid, thine would I call. 
For I have found thee, in some tedious hours 

Of pain and languor, capable of being 
Expert in more than med'cine's healing powers; 

Not nauseous drugs, alone, with pomp decreeing, 
But nearly able by thy social skill 
To make me half forget that I was ill. 



% 



195 



TO 



Our friendship, Arthur, was not form'd. 
As some have been, in boyhood's heat. 

When feelings may be chill'd or warm'd 
By any specious counterfeit. 

We met not until both had past 
The inexperienced flush of youth; 

And learnt, as all may do, at last. 
The worth of confidence and truth. 

We ask'd no pledge, nor aught profess'd. 
Each knew he had no selfish ends ; 

And time, the most unerring test 
Of every tie, has made us friends. 

liOng may we be so ! One event. 

Which friendship views with jealous eye, 
(Sometimes from selfish discontent) 

Has but the more endear'd our tie. 



196 

How should it have been otherwise ? 

No groundless hopes my bosom warm'd, 
A heart, whose love thy own would prize, 

I well might guess for friendship form'd. 

And I have liv'd to see thee prove 

The purest joys that life can lend; 
Yet never found thee made by love 

Less worthy of the name of friend. 

Farewell ! I give no thanks to thee, 

Or thine ; though surely few would doubt them, 
And some might look for them ; but we 

Will do^ as we have done, without them. 



197 



TO W- 



If genuine love of freedom, testified 

Alike by words and deeds ; if sterling sense, 

Pure taste, directed by intelligence. 
And candidly to liberal arts applied ; 
If, with such high acquirements, be allied 

A heart replete with true benevolence ; 

Who will assert I have not just pretence 
To call their owner " Friend," with honest pride ? 

None would dispute it, might I, unrestrain'd 
By scruples, which but add redoubled strength 
To all I feel, inscribe thy name at length, 

But not by me thy feelings shall be pain'd. 
Cost what it will, that cherish'd name shall be 
Honour'd, rever'd, and lov'd ; but utter'd not by me. 



# 



198 



VERSES 



TO BEa WHO IS JUSTLY ENTITLED TO THEM. 



In childhood thy kindness has often caress'd me> 
Its memory is mix'd with my earliest days ; 

It brighten'd my boyhood, in manhood it bless'd me. 
It thought not of thanks, and it pin'd not for praise. 

Can I, in thy evening, forget the mild brightness 

Which beam'd in thy zenith, and shines round thee 
still? 

No: ere I forget thee must memory be sightless. 

And the heart thou hast cherish'd death only can chill. 

Long, long since belov'd, now as warmly respected. 
To my fancy thou seem'st like some time-honour'd 
tree; 

And the plant, which thy fostering shadow protected. 
Still looks up with filial fondness to thee. 



199 

Dark storms passing over, perhaps may have sear'd thee. 

The moss of old age be thy livery now ; 
But much still survives which has justly endear'd thee; 

Some greenness still graces each gently bent bough. 

May that sun, which must set, in descending enwreath 
thee 

With a mild pensive splendour no cloud can o'ercast; 
And all that has flourish'd around and beneath thee. 

Will preserve thy remembrance when sunset is past. 



A POSTSCRIPT. 

Tnt latest leaf is shed. 

Life's beaming sun hath set ; 
Thou sleep'st among the dead, 

But art remember'd yet. 
Not only to the last. 

Did I look up, and love ; 
But now, when all is past. 

Thought follov/s thee above. 



1 



m 



200 

While life had alight to give 

That might seem bliss to thee, 
I wish'd that thou might'st live. 

Though parted far from me. 
But when existence here 

Could suffering but increase ; 
All, all who held thee dear 

Desir'd thj soul's release. 

It came, and thou art free. 

Nor can I mourn the stroke. 
Although, in losing thee, 

Some sweetest ties are broke. 
Farewell! belov'd, rever'd; 

We part, but to be nearer ; 
Though much thy life endear M, 

Death seems to make thee dearerl 



201 
TO HANNAH AND PHOEBE, 



I HAVE known you so long, and have lov'd you so well. 

It is fit that one page of our friendship should tell ; 

For experience has made it as firm and as fond. 

On my part, at least, as a brotherly bond ; 

And on yours, I should hope, some such feelings are 

known 
Towards me, as affectionate sisters might own. 
Ought it not to be thus ? Oh ! most surely it should ; 
For through pain, and through pleasure; through evil 

and good ; 
Or what the world call such, I think I may say 
We have mutually strove to make smoother the way ; 
In moments of sunshine, that sunshine to share; 
And in days overclouded, the darkness to bear. 
May we still do the same ; and increasingly feel 
That joy genuine friendship alone can reveal : 
And gratefully own, while it doubles our bliss. 
Its influence extends even further than this ; 
For, in seasons of grief, it is equally true, 
By dividing our sorrows it lessens them too. 



202 



THE 

FARTING ADDRESS TO THE MUSE.* 

Our task is ended now, and we may part, 

As lovers do when Fate and Fortune frown ; 
With some foreboding heaviness of heart. 

Each struggle quelPd, each stubborn sigh kept 
down : 
Experience cools " the fever of renown ;" 

More serious duties claim increasing care ; 
Nor glimpse of future fame, nor laurel crown, 
Can woo me with their soul-seducing snare ; 
Since Prudence bids me shun, what Hope once bade me 
dare. 

And yet, like truant schoolboy, I have knowri 

The dear delights of stolen liberty ; 
And bow'd at times before thy magic throne. 

Like one half conscious of idolatry. 
And half asham'd ; for thou hast been to me, 

" My shame in crowds, my solitary pride ;'* 
'Twas loneliness first led to love of thee ; 

Hence, before men though I have oft denied 
Thy name, in secret still I've calPd thee to my side, 

* These verses concluded a volume of Poems published anony- 
mously. 



20S 

There is a cause for this : thou know'st there is ; 

Ask of thj numerous worshippers, and they 
Can truly tell what empty meed is his, 

Who, fondly prompted unto thee to pay 
His votive vows, and hail thee with his lay, 

Deems thou wilt grant the barren boon he craves ; 
One in a thousand wins a wreath of bay, 

Which o'er his brow in sterile splendour waves ; 
The rest in mute despair crouch before Mammon's slaves. 

" Know thine own worth, and reverence the lyre," 

Like many a lofty precept, potent seems. 
Till prov'd by sage experience : but the fire 

Unfed is soon extinct ; and when the dreams 
Of proud distinction, and the fancied gleams 

Of future fame, fade from the mental eye ; 
What wonder if the bright and witching beams 

Thy brow once wore, when its first majesty 
Dawn'd on thy votary's view, should seem a dream gone 

[by? 

Happy, if this were all ; but worse remains : 

There are who have profess'd themselves to be 
Thy worshippers, whose souls have worn the chains 

Of lust, ambition, avarice, sophistry ; 
Who, mindless of the homage sworn to thee. 

Have bow'd to other idols, pomp and power ; 
Or in false glory's fane have bent the knee : 

And thereby forfeited the deathless dower 
They might have shar'd with thee in lone sequester 'd 
bower. 



20i 

Thus hath apostasy from that pure spirit 

Befitting thee, and those who use thj name, 
Made it a dubious gift for man to inherit 
A bard's desires, or seek a poet's fame i 
f Yet, fickle as thou art, not thine the shame 
Of this degeneracy ; when man shall learn 
His real interest, and his noblest aim. 

With genuine love to thee shall thousands tnxu^ 
And pure and hallow'd fires shall on thy altar burn. 

When man shall know the real worth of wealth. 

And prize it for that worth ; when truth shall keep 
The heart, and heart's aftections, in sound health 

By love's unerring law ; when man shall weep 
To see the murdering sword its lustre steep 

In human blood, and shun false glory's fane ; 
Then shall thy songs of triumph proudly sweep 

From realm to realm, from billowy main to main. 
And freedom, peace, and love, with thee for ever reign ! 



205 



TO JOANNA, 

HEU sending me the leaf of a FEOWER GATHEllEU IN 

Wordsworth's garden. 



Joanna ! though I well can guess 
That in mirth's very idleness. 

And raillery's enjoyment. 
This leaf is sent ; it shall not lose 
Its errand, but afford the Muse 

Some minutes' ligKt employment. 

Thou sent'st it, in thy naughty wit. 
As emblem, type, or symbol, fit 

For a mere childish rhymer ; 
And I accept it, not as such. 
But as indicative of much 

Lovelier, and far sublimer. 



I own, as over it I pore. 
It is a simple leaf, no more : 

And further, without scandal, 
It is so delicate and small, 
One sees 'twas never meant at all 

For boorish grasp to handle. 
T 2 



206 

But in itself, for aught I see, 
'Tis perfect as a leaf can be ; 

Nor can I doubt a minute. 
That on the spot where first it grew. 
It had each charm of shape, and hue, 

And native sweetness in it. 



I own, without all " ifs" and " buts," 
That, as I see it now, it cuts 

A very puny figure ; 
And looks like garbled passages, 
Which certain critics, when thej please, 

Can comment on with vigour. 

But 'tis not by one leaf alone. 
The beauty of the flower is known : 

Nor do I rank a poet 
By parts, that critics may think fit 
To quote, who, " redolent of wit," 

Take up his works to show it. 

If on its stem, this leaf displayed 
Beauty which sought no artful aid. 

And scatter'd fragrance round it ; 
If the sweet flower on which it grew 
Was graceful, natural, lovely too, 

Delighting all who found it :— 



207 

Then will I own that flower to be 
A type of Wordsworth, or of thee ; 

For kindred virtues grace jou ; 
And though the bard may think me bold. 
And thou mayst half resolve to scold, 

I in one page will place you ! 



208 
VERSES 

TO 



OS THE FIFTIETH AITNIVEKSARY OF THEIR MABRIAGEv 



Sweet is the earlj dream of love. 
When first we feel its sacred sway ; 

When earth around, and heaven above. 
Seem lit by joy's new-dawning ray. 

Then nature's charms more radiant seem. 
Opening fresh beauties to our view ; 

Joy dances on the sparkling stream, 
Hope lends the flower its brightest hue. 

More chasten'd, but more justly dear. 
Are love's delights in manhood's strife ; 

W^hen month by month, and year by year. 
Have brought us to the noon of life. 

Some of the fabrics Fancy built 
In earlier hours, perchance have faded ; 

And many a prospect Hope had gilt. 
Experience may have somewhat shaded ! 



209 

Yet not the less we fondly prize 

That which has stood Time's potent t^st; 
What has survived, still proudly vies 

With all we fancied we possess'd. 

Earth's loveliest bower more lovely seems 
In the sun's fierce meridian heat ; 

And thus, in manhood's bustling schemes, 
Domestic bliss is doubly sweet. 

But oh ! more hallow 'd, calm, and pure. 
Than love's first dawn, or noon-tide ray, 

Those milder glories which endure 

Through both, and mark its closing day. 

Then, then we know the light that blest 
Our morn and zenith, God hath given ; 

Its beams, like suns which reach the west. 
Seem opening vistas into heaven. 

For you, who, in a good old age, 

Have reach'd this calm and glorious hour. 
Whom half a century's pilgrimage 

Has taught to bless love's soothing powder ;• 

For you, what wish could bard express 
Which Providence hath not surpass'd ? 

May then your well-earned happiness 
Be pure and cloudless to the last. 



210 

Since it has been your lot to prove 
All that this world can give to please, 

Mutual affection, filial love. 

And children's children round your knees ;- 

May consciousness of pi^esent bliss, 

An earnest of your future be ; 
And holier, happier far than this, 

Be heaven's eternal jubilee. 



211 



ailOT®S AllSX 



Beautiful fabric ! even in decay 

And desolation, beauty still is thine : 
As the rich sunset of an autumn day. 

When gorgeous clouds in glorious hues combine 
To render homage to its slow decline. 

Is more majestic in its parting hour : 
Even so thy mouldering, venerable shrine. 

Possesses now a more subduing power. 
Than in thine earlier sway with pomp and pride thy 
dower. 

To voice of praise or prayer, or solemn sound 

Of sacred music, once familiar here. 
Thy walls are echoless; within their bound, 

Once holy deem'd, and to religion dear, 
No sound salutes the most attentive ear 

That tells thy former destiny ; unless 
It be when fitful breezes wandering near 

Wake such faint sighs, as feebly might express 
Some unseen spirit's wo for thy lost loveliness. 



212 

Or when on stormy nights the winds are high. 

And through thy roofless walls and arches sweeps 
In tones more full of thrilling harmony [deep 

Than art could reach; while from the neighbouring 
The roar of bursting billows seems to keep 

Accordant measure with the tempest's chime ; 
Oh, then ! at times have I, arous'd from sleep. 

Fancied that thou, even in thy proudest prime, 
Couldst ne'er have given birth to music more sublime. 

But to the eye, revolving years still add 

Fresh charms, which make thee lovelier to the view; 
For nature has luxuriantly clad 

Thy ruins ; as if wishing to renew 
Their claim to homage from those hearts that wo© 

Her gentle influence : with indulgent hand 
She has aton'd for all that time could do. 

Though she might not his ravages withstand; 
And now thou art her own: her skill thy beauties 
plann'd. 

The mantling ivy's ever-verdant wreath 

She gave thee as her livery to wear ; 
Thy wall-flowers, waving at the gentlest breath. 

And scattering perfume on the summer air. 
Wooing the bee to come and labour there ; 

The clinging moss, whose hue of sober grey 
Makes beautiful what else were bleak and bare : 

These she has given thee as a fit array 
For thy declining pomp, and her delightful sway 



21S 

Yet, is it not her power, or these alone 

That make thee interesting as thou art ; 
The merely beautiful, however prone 

We are to prize it, could not touch the heart. 
Mere form and colour would not thus impart. 

Unto the pensive, contemplating mind. 
Thoughts which might almost cause a tear to start 

In eyes not given to weep : there is assign'd 
To thee a stronger power in deeper feeling shrin'd. 

It is a consciousness of what thou wert, 

Compared with what thou art ; a feeling sense 
Which even steals upon the most inert. 

Who have the leas.t conception how, or whence 
Such mixt sensation should arise from thence ; 

But so it is, that few there are can gaze 
Upon the wrecks of old magnificence. 

Nor own the moral that their fate conveys. 
How all that man can build his own brief power betrays^. 

And most of all this truth arrests the heart. 

When edifices that were meant to be, 
Not mere mementos of the builder's art. 

That future ages should with wonder see ; 
But monuments of wealth and piety. 

To the Most High for ever consecrate ; 
When these, too, share the fate now fallen on thee, 

Who can with stoic coldness contemplate 
Their splendour thus defac'd, their pomp thus desx)late. 



2U 

No Catholic am I, in whom the sight 

Of glories tarnish'd, altars overthrown. 
Aught of revengeful feeling could excite : 

Pope, Cardinal, and Abbot, I disown 
Alike, as empty titles ; seldom shown 

More insignificant and profitless. 
Than where they once assum'd their haughtiest tone 

Yet do I feel what words cannot express. 
Viewing the faded pride of fancied holiness. 

Of fancied holiness ! O say not so. 

Nor judge unkindly of another's creed ; 
The intent and motive God alone can know, 

And these condemn, or sanctify the deed. 
Ave-maria, crucifix, and bead 

Are nothing in themselves ; but if they were 
Imagin'd helpful in the votary's need, 

Although a faith more spiritual may spare 
Such outward aids to seek, from blame it may forbear. 

And thus this gorgeous edifice, if rear'd 

By piety, which sought with honest aim 
The glory of The Lord, should be rever'd. 

Even for that cause, by those who seek the same. 
Perchance the builders err'd ; but who shall blame 

Error, nor feel that they partake it too r 
Then judge with charity, whate'er thy name. 

Be thou a Pagan, Protestant, or Jew ; 
Nor with a scornful glance these papal reliques \ie\v. 



215 

i grant that Popery's was a galling joke, 

Its ritual, one that reason must disdain : 
And much I venerate their names who broke 

The fetters, and releas'd us from the chain. 
Dreadful indeed is superstition's reign, 

And priestcraft has pollution in its touch ; 
Yet, as extremes beget extremes again, 

There is a danger^ or there may be such. 
That we in turn may doubt, as they believed, too much. 

To give implicit credence to each tale 

Of monkish legends : reliques to adore ; 
To think God honour'd by the cowl or veil. 

Reckless or who, or what, the emblem wore ; 
Indeed is mockery, mummery, nothing more : 

But if cold scepticism usurp the place 
That superstition held in days of yore. 

We may not be in much more hopeful case 
Than if we still implor'd the Virgin Mary's grace. 

There is a medium, could we find it out, 

(And all may find it if they seek aright,) 
Between extreme credulity and doubt j 

A safe and middle path, not gain'd by might 
Or wisdom of our own ; a path, v</hose light 

" Shines more and more unto the perfect day ;'" 
Not overcast by bigotry's dark night, 

Nor faintly lit by reason's twilight ray ; 
But cloudless, straight, and plain ; a high and holy way, 



£16 

And tiiose who walk therein, with humble trust 

In Him who cast it up, and led them there. 
Remembering this, that they are form'd of dust. 

The gifts they have receiv'd with meekness bear^- 
Reason and faith are such ; a peerless pair. 

Would man but nse them both with holy awe. 
And of the abuse of each, in turn, beware. 

Their influence would instruct him how to draw 
His life upon the line of God's unerring law. 

But I have wander'd widely from my theme. 

And some perhaps may think have wander'd long ; 
Yet others more indulgently may deem, 

Nor chide the minstrel for his sober song ; 
It could not well be gay, tlius framM among 

The desolate ruins of departed days 
An,d years gone by, whose presence wakes a throng 

Of pensive thoughts, compelling me to raise. 
In contemplative mood, chastened and solemn lays — 

Congenial to the scene ; and, as is fit, 

Imprest with somewhat of its temper'd hues; 
One, if no more, I trust will cherish it. 

When she, the past retracing, shall peruse 
This frail memorial of an humble muse : 

For she will then remember how, ere while. 
Far from her home upon the banks of Ouse, 

She wander'd with me through this ruin'd pile, 
When autumn's setting sun shed round his softest smile. 



211 

Yes, thou, my young friend, will not soon forget. 

Nor should st thou, visiting this lovely scene; 
Because upon thy brow thou bear'st as yet 

Youth's joyous chaplet of unblighted green. 
Surpassing far the poet's bay, I ween ; 

For the fresh dews which unto thine dispense 
Its living loveliness— its charm serene. 

Rise from the fount of early innocence. 
That makes in happy hearts its hidden residence. 

Thou art exactly at the age, when all 

Within, each outward beauty can enhance ; 
When bliss has too much novelty to pall. 

As it does afterward in life's advance. 
Even reality may seem romance ; 

It often does, while yet delight is new ; 
And time, and place, and trivial circumstance, 

That feed the eager fancy, charm the view. 
At such an age as thine, may last existence through. 

Therefore do I believe, that in thy heart 

These ruins will their own remembrance keep ; 
And, sketch'd with them on memory's faithful chart. 

Will be, the wild walk to the mighty deep. 
The lone and shady spot for washing sheep. 

W^here the tall, trembling aspens ceaseless play. 
And we stood still to hear the light winds sweep 

Their rustling leaves, while, in the unseen bay. 
We heard the billows' dash : these shall not pass away ! 
U2 



218 

Nor \d\l the scene that hail'd us at the close 

Of our wild ramble, less survive to each ; 
When we exchang'd the stillness and repose 

Of the lone common, for the open beach ; 
And saw before us, far as eye could reach. 

The bursting breakers fimg their foam on high^ 
And felt how poor was all the power of speech 

To paint the grandeur and rude melody 
That spoke, in nature's tone, to heart, and ear, and eye^ 

Farewell ! I may not lengthen out a strain 

Already too protracted ; then, farewell! 
Nor shall I think that I have writ in vain. 

If they, who love such scenes, whose bosoms swell 
With those pure feelings that delight to dwell 

In yet untroubled hearts ; if such shall own 
That I have spoken what their tongues would tell. 

Returning from such haunts : that praise alone 
Shall recompense me well, and for ihe^ task atone* 

^thMo. 20th, 181P. 



219 



f® A ©Mm® 



OF THREE TEAIIS OlD. 



Thou art a thing made up of all 

Delightful glorious elements. 
Which thought, in fancy's sweetest thrall, 

By her creative power invents. 

For could she by her spell command 
That there should stand before me now 

A denizen of fairy -land. 
It were not lovelier than thou ! 

Yet not for this alone, have I 

With tender fondness gaz'd on thee ; 

There is another, stronger tie 
Which makes thee seem so dear to me. 

It is a tie I would not name, 
Because by few 'twere understood ; 

Yet holier, purer far, its claim. 
Than consanguinity of blood. 



220 

And thus to feel, and this to know. 

That I would seek thee, more than shun, 

Wakes in my heart a warmer glow 
Than all it ever wish'd has done ! 

To form fallacious schemes of joy ; 

To wish and hope, we know not what; 
To see reality destroy 

Such phantoms, is a common lot. 

But, while beholding others blest. 
To feel no vain regrets intrude, 

Convinc'd that Heaven has order'd best. 
Is cause of sober gratitude ! 



521 



THE QUAKER POET. 



VERSES ON SEIISe MYSELP SO BESIGSrATEjS. 



" The Quaker Poet 1'' — is such nam^ 

A simple designation ; 
Or one expressive of my shame. 

And thy vituperation ?■ — 

If but the former — I, for one. 

Have no objection to it; 
A name, as such, can startle none 

Who rationally view it. 

But if such title would convey 

Contempt, or reprobation. 
Allow me, briefly as I may, 

To state my vindication. 

It is not splendour of costume 

That prompts harmonious numbers ^ 

The nightingale, of sober plume, 
Sings, while the peacock slumbers. 



222 

The shallow brooks, in spring so gaj. 

In summer soonest fail us ; 
Their sparkling pride has pass'd away, 

Their sounds no more regale us. 

While the more deep, but quiet streamsj 

By alders overshaded, 
Flow on, in spite of scorching beams, 

Their beauties unihvaded. 

And on their peaceful verge we see 

Green grass, fresh flowers, and round them 

Hover the butterfly and bee, — - 
Rejoicing to have found them. 

Is it the gayest of the gay. 

The votaries of fashion, 
Who feel most sensibly the sway 

Of pure and genuine passion ? 

No ! — ^liearts there be, the world deems cold, 

As warm, as true, as tender 
As those which gayer robes enfold. 

However proud their splendour. 

Of mine I speak not : — He, alone. 
Who form'd, can truly know it ; 

Nor of my verse ; I frankly own 
Myself no lofty poet. 



22S 

But I contend the Quaker creed. 

By fair interpretation, 
Has nothing in it to impede 

Poetic aspiration : 

All that fair nature's charms displa^t 

Of grandeur, or of beauty ; 
All that the human heart can sway, 

Joy, grief, desire, or tluty ; — 

All these are ours — the copious source 

Of true poetic feeling :-- 
And wouldst thou check their blameless course, 

Our lips in silence sealing ? 

Nature, to all her ample page 

Impartially unfolding, 
Proliibits neither saint, nor sage, 

Its beauties from beholding. 

And thus the muse her gifts bestows 

With no sectarian spirit. 
Her laurel wreaths invest the brows 

Which such distinctions merit. 

Through every age, in every clime. 
Her favour'd sons have flourish'd ; 

Have felt her energy sublime. 
Her pure delights have nourish'd. 



224^ 

From Lapland's snows, from Persia's bowers, 

Their songs are still ascending, 
Then, Quaker Poets, try jour powers I 

Why should you fear offending ? 

Still true to nature be your aim. 

Abhorring affectation ; 
You, with peculiar grace may claim 

Each simpler decoration. 

And, with such, you may blend no less. 

Spite of imputed weakness. 
The godlike strength of gentleness. 

The majesty of meekness! 

The blameless pride of purity, 

Chast'ning each soft emotion ; 
And, from fanaticism free. 

The fervour of devotion ! 

Be such your powers ; — and in the range 
Of themes which they assign you, 

Win wreaths you need not wish to change 
For aught that fame could twine you. 

For never can a poet's lays 

Obtain more genuine honour. 
Than whilst his Gift promotes the praise 

Of Him, who is its Donor I 



225 



DRAB BONNETS, 



Verses occasioned by reading in a Morning Paper, that at a Meet- 
ing convened in London, for some charitable purpose, " among 
other Ladies we observed a considerable number, whose Drab 
Bonnets bespoke them Members of the Society of Friends." 



They may cant of costumes, and of brilliant head- 
dresses, 

A la Grecque — a la Frangoise — or what else they 
will; 
They may talk of tiaras, that glitter on tresses 

Enwreath'd by the Graces, and braided with skill : 
Yet to my partial glance, I confess the drab bonnet 

Is the loveliest of any, — and most when it bears 
Not only the bright gloss of neatness upon it — 

But, beneath, — the expression Benevolence wears ! 
Then let fashion exult in her vapid vagaries. 

From her fascinations my favourite is free; 
Be folly's the head-gear that momently varies. 

But a Bonnet of drab is the sweetest to me; 



226 

Though stately the ostrich-plume, gracefully throwing 

Its feathery flashes of light on the eye ; 
Though tasty and trim the straw -bonnet, when glowing 

With its ribbons so glossy of various dye ! — 
Yet still I must own, although none may seem duller 

Than a simple drab bonnet to many a gaze — 
It is, and it will be, the favourite colour, 

Around which my fancy delightedly plays : — 
And it well suits my muse with a garland to wreathe it, 

And echo its praises with gratefuUest glee, — - 
For, knowing the goodness that oft lurks beneath it. 

The Bonnet of drab beats a turban with me. 



Full many a rare gem,— the poet has chaunted,— 

In the depths of the ocean flings round it its sheen ;— 
And many a flowret, its beauties unvaunted. 

Springs to life, sheds its perfume, and withers unseen : 
And well do I know that our sisterhood numbers. 

Arrayed in the liv'ry that coxcombs reprove, — 
Forms as fair as e'er rose on a poet's sweet slumbers. 

And faces as lovely as ever tauglit love. 
This I know, and have felt; — and, thus knowing and 
feeling, 

A recreant minstrel I surely should be. 
If, my heart-felt attachment ignobly concealing. 

The Bonnet of drab past unhonour'd by me I 



221 

I have bask'd in the blaze of both beauty and fashion, — 

Have seen these united with gifts rich and rare, 
And crown'd with a heart that could cherish compas- 
sion,— 

And by sympathy soften what sorrow must bear. 
Yet acknowledging this, — which I can do sincerely,— 

Far the highest enjoyment this bosom e'er knew. 
The glance which it treasures most fondly, most dearly, 

Beam'd from under a Bonnet of drab-colour'd hue. 
•Twas my pleasure, — my pride! — it is past, and ha?- 
perishM, 

Like the track of a ship o'er the dark -heaving sea ; 
Eut its loveliness lives, its remembrance is cherish'd, 

And th.e Bonnet of drab is still beauteous to me i 



22S 



STANZAS, 



OCCASIONED BY THE DSATH Or A BELATIYE ABROAD. 



Thou sleep'st far from the land of thj birth. 
But thy name, and thy memory are dear; 

And, though foreign thy grave, its fresh earthy 
Closing o'er thee, was wet with a tear. 

The warm tear of affection ! — as true. 
As sincere, and as kind, — as if drawn 

From fond eyes, which here wept for thee too. 
And had watch'd thee from infancy's morn. 

But, though bitter the tidings appear'd. 
Which told us that thou wert no more ; 

And though painful it was, ere we fear'd. 
To find that suspense was all o'er : — 

And though mournful it was, as we read 
The last record thy love had addrest. 

To reflect that it came from — the dead ! 
Now, for thee, every care is at rest. 



229 

Thou art number'd with those who can know 
Neither sickness, nor sorrow, nor pain ; 

From whose bright eyes no tears ever flow. 
And whom death cannot conquer again. 

For their God dwells among them; — and they 
See his face, and rejoice in its light; 

And his presence is pledge of their day. 
For his glory has banish'd the night. 

Since such the fruition— that Faith 

Suggests to thy spirit as given ; 
Can we mourn, although sudden thy death. 

And distant thy transit to heaven ? 

No ! it surely were selfish indeed. 
To regret that thy troubles are o'er : 

Reason's law, Christianity's creed. 
Commands us to sorrow no more. 

But to think of thee, now, as of one 
Remov'd far from sorrow's control ; 

Whose brief race of existence is run. 
And hath ended at Glory's last goal. 

Perhaps He, whose omniscience transcends 
All wisdom to mortals made known. 

But conducted thee far from thy friends. 
To make thee more truly his own, 
X 3 



2S0 

For it is not while here we sojourn. 

Encircled by all we love best, 
That our hearts are most likely to learn 

This is not the place of our rest ! 

That place of true rest thou hast found ; 

At least so we humbly may trust. 
Nor boots it, though foreign the ground 

Where thy reliques may moulder to dust, 

Tor thy spirit, redeem'd through His love. 
Which alone can redeem, — sought its sphere ; 

Joys immortal surround it above :— . 
Peace be with its memory here J 






23 i 



TO THE WINDS. 



Te viewless Minstrels of the sky ! 
I marvel not, in times gone by 

That ye were deified : 
For, even in this later day. 
To me oft has your power, or play. 

Unearthly thoughts supplied. 

Awful your power ! when by your might 
You heave the wild waves, crested white, 

Like mountains in your wrath ; 
Ploughing between them valleys deep. 
Which, to the seaman rous'd from sleep. 

Yawn like Death's opening path ! 

Graceful yoiir play ! when, round the bower 
Where Beauty culls Spring's loveliest flower, 

To wreathe her dark locks there. 
Your gentlest whispers lightly breathe 
The leaves between, flit round that wreath. 

And stir her silken hair. 



still, thoughts like these are but of earth. 
And you can give far loftier birth : — 

Ye come! — we no not whence! 
Ye go ! — can mortals trace your flight? 
All imperceptible to sight ; 

Though audible to sense. 

The Sun, — his rise, and set we know; 
Tiie Sea, — we mark its ebb, and flow; 

The Moon, — ^lier wax, and wane; 
The Stars, — Man knows their courses well. 
The Comet's vagrant paths can tell; — 

But you his search disdain. 

Ye restless, homeless, shapeless things 5 
Who mock all our imaginings. 

Like spirits in a dream ; 
What epithet can words supply 
Unto the bard who takes such high 

Unmanageable theme ? 

But one : — ^to me, when Fancy stirs 

My thoughts, ye seem Heaven's messengers. 

Who leave no path untrod ; 
And when, as now, at midnight's hour, 
I hear your voice in all its power, 

It seems the Voice of God. 



233 



CONCLUDING VERSES, 



WBITTEIf AFTER HETUR^TING rHOM 



AN AUTUMNAL MORNING WALK. 



It is the very carnival of nature, 

The loveliest season that the year can showi 
When earth, obedient to her great Creator, 

Her richest boons delighteth to bestow. 
The gently-sighing breezes, as they blow. 

Have more than vernal softness ; and the sun 
Sheds on the landscape round a mellower glow 

Than in his summer splendour he has done. 
As if he near'd his goal, and knew the race was won. 

It is the season when the green delight 

Of leafy luxury begins to fade ! 
When leaves are changing daily to the sight. 

Yet seem but lovelier from each deepening shade; 
Or tint, by autumn's touch upon them laid ; 

It is the season when each streamlet's sound. 
Flowing through lonely vale, or woody glade, 

Assumes a tone more pensive, more profound ; 
And yet that hoarser voice spreads melody arouud. 



234 

And I hate wander'd far, since the bright east 

Was glorious with the dawning light of day ; 
Seeing, as that effulgence more increas'd. 

The mists of morning slowly melt away : 
And, as I pass'd along, from every spray 

With dew-drops glistening, evermore have heard 
Some feather'd songster chaunt his roundelay ; 

Or bleat of sheep, or lowing of the herd ; 
Or rustling of falPn leaf, when morning's breezes stirrM. 

Thus having roamM, and reach'd my home at last, 

Can I do better, while my bosom glows. 
With ail the loveliness through which I've pass'd, 

Even till enjoyment wishes for repose, 
And meditation still with memory grows : 

Can I do better than once more to trim 
My evening fire, and these my labours close. 

Before my feelings chill, or sense wax dim. 
With solemn strain of prayer, fit for a parting hymn f 

" God ! it is an awful thing indeed 

For one who estimates our nature well. 
Be what it may his outward sect, or creed. 

To name thee, thou Incomprehensible ! 
Hadst thou not chosen of thyself to tell. 

As in thy gospel thou hast done ; nor less. 
By condescending in our hearts to dwell; 

Could man have ever found to thee access. 
Or worshipp'd thee aright, in spiritual holiness ? 



2S5 

«* No ! for the utmost that we could have done,. 

Were to have rais'd, as Paul at Athens saw, 
Altars unto tlie dread and unknown One, 

Bending before, we knew not what, with awe ; 
And even now instructed by a law 

Holier than that of Moses, what know we 
Of thee, the Highest ? Yet thou bidd'st us draw 

Near thee in spirit : O then pardon me 
[f, in this closing strain, I crave a boon of thee. 

" It shall be this : permit me not to place 

Mj soul's affections on the things of earth j 
But, conscious of the treasures of thy grace. 

To let them, in my inmost heart, give birth 
To gratitude proportion'd to their worth : 

Teach me to feel that all which thou hast made 
Upon this mighty globe's gigantic girth. 

Though meant with filial love to be survey'd, 
s nothing to thyself; — the shadow of a shade. 

" If thou hast given me, more than unto some, 

A feeling sense of nature's beauties fair, 
Which sometimes renders admiration dumb, 

From consciousness that words cannot declare 
The beauty thou hast scatter 'd every where ; 

grant that this may lead me still, through all 
Thy works to thee ! nor prove a treacherous snare 

Adapted those affections to enthral, 
iVhich should be thine alone, and waken at thy call, 



2S6 

" I would not merely dream my life away 

In fancied rapture, or imagin'd joy; 
Nor that a perfum'd flower, a dew-gemm'd spi'ay, 

A murmuring brook, or any prouder toy. 
Should, for its own sake, thought or song employ ; 

So far alone as nature's charms can lead 
To thee who fram'd them all, and canst destroy, 

Or innocent enjoyment serve to feed ; 
Grant me to gaze and love, and thus thy works to read, 

" But while from one extreme thy power may keep 

My erring frailty, O preserve me still 
From dulness, nor let cold indifference steep 

My senses in oblivion : if the thrill 
Of early bliss must sober, as it will. 

And should, when earthly things to heavenly yield. 
I would have feelings left time cannot chill ; 

That, while I yet can walk through grove or field, 
I may be conscious there of charms by thee reveal'd. 

" And when I shall, as, soon or late, I must. 

Become infirm : in age, if I grow old ; 
Or, sooner, if my strength should fail its trust ; 

When I relinquish haunts where I have strolPd 
At morn or eve, and can no more behold 

Thy glorious works : forbid me to repine ; 
X*et memory still their loveliness unfold 

Before my mental eye, and let them shine 
With borrow'd light from thee, for they are Thine !'^ 

THE END, 



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